Scapegoat
by mouse8
Summary: Peter makes a dismaying discovery on a case. But is all as it seems? CHAPTER 9 NOW UP AND STORY COMPLETED.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin and USA television, and is merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.

Rating: T

Summary: Peter makes a dismaying discovery on a case, but is all as it seems?

Author's notes: The story is completely written, but not yet betaed. I will post every few days as fast as I, or my wonderful beta, Susan, can insert all the missing commas.

Since it takes me so long to write, this is very much a Season 2 fic, so I'm very happy to be posting it before the start of Season 3. That said, there are only fairly vague spoilers to Season 2.

Scapegoat Chapter 1

Peter Burke hummed jauntily as he approached June's house, despite the oppressive heat that still lingered in the evening air. The city had seen a week of soaring temperatures and correspondingly high levels of ozone and crime. However, Peter's team had kept their cool and that afternoon had wrapped up their latest case, maintaining their exceptionally high closure rate.

It was an evening for celebration, and since El was in the final days of preparation before a major event and therefore rarely home, Peter and Neal had arranged a night of beer and board games in the air-conditioned comfort of Neal's penthouse apartment.

Peter had long since received permission from June to enter without bothering her staff, so he opened the front door without pausing to knock, appreciating the fresh blast of cool air that enveloped him. A maid he didn't recognise was dusting in the hall, and he cast her an absent smile before taking the stairs two at a time.

The prospect of matching wits with Neal over chess or scrabble was remarkably invigorating. Despite the innate competitiveness of both men, their games were amicable - challenging, but always fun, with an extra piquancy added by the unique history that lay between them. Despite this shared history, or maybe because of it, Peter never really minded losing to Neal. He accepted the younger man as his intellectual equal. The success of their partnership derived largely from the easy exchange of ideas - quick riffs of inspiration intertwining and soaring up in harmonizing notes to produce a full symphony of strategy.

Playing games with Neal was an extension of that process, energizing yet oddly relaxing, so Peter approached in anticipation of an enjoyable evening. He rapped smartly on his friend's door, subconsciously listening to the movements within as he awaited a response. Instead of a shouted invitation to enter or the sound of Neal's quick, light steps, he only heard a low shuffle that alerted him to something amiss even before the door was opened.

"Neal, are you alright?"

His friend's head poked around the door, hair uncharacteristically disheveled, eyes red and heavy-lidded. "Peter, I'm sorry. I should have called, but I was in bed."

"You feeling okay?"

The concern was prompted as much by the mention of an atypical afternoon nap as it was by Neal's appearance. A slim hand gestured uncertainly. "I thought it was just a headache - too much paperwork at the end of the Oxford case, you know, but now it's possible I'm coming down with something."

"Can I get you anything?" Peter wasn't quite sure what he was offering; chicken soup wasn't his forte, but Neal's pallor prompted the effort.

"Just a rain check." The tired smile on his face was a shadow of his normal exuberant grin. "June's got a well-stocked medicine cabinet if I feel in need of something more."

"You sure?" Peter was reluctant to leave, and it wasn't just disappointment at the change in plans. "I've been exposed to your germs all day. Maybe a distraction is what you need. Let's see just how few moves it takes me to checkmate you."

"Taking advantage of an invalid? Peter, how Machiavellian of you. I'll take you on when my mind isn't quite so clouded, but now, I need more sleep. Go home, watch a game, and keep Satchmo company. I'll drop you a line in the morning if I'm impersonating Typhoid Mary."

Peter accepted the dismissal, turning away and raising his hand in farewell, but he didn't immediately descend, choosing instead to listen to the gentle pad of feet across the floor and the muffled squeak of bedsprings before he reluctantly headed down the stairs.

Every finely tuned Caffrey instinct he possessed told him that, despite appearances, he'd just been played. He couldn't even say what had pinged his deception radar. He hadn't noticed Neal showing any signs of feeling ill during the day, but his friend probably wouldn't admit to a headache if a piano fell on his head.

If Neal's performance had been deliberately misleading, the key question was why. Peter had learnt to trust his friend's intentions, but not his actions. Over the last year, Neal had never committed a crime for his own benefit, yet was sucked with lamentable ease into precarious situations that had Peter contemplating suggesting a matching leash to go along with the tracking anklet. It was also possible that Neal just needed some time alone. Although the months that had passed since Kate's death had dulled the immediacy of grief, loss and guilt still frequently shadowed Neal's eyes. Peter wanted to give his friend the space he desired while offering the support he needed. It was a high-wire balancing act fraught with potential missteps.

Peter considered calling Mozz for another perspective, but the prospect of rustling newspapers and yakking about mockingbirds in exchange for a few cryptic quotes soured him on the idea. It was too late in the day for enigmatic. He'd just have to keep a close eye on Neal's movements and hope to forestall any questionable activities.

Satchmo was gratifyingly pleased to see him and received a walk round the nearest park as his reward. On their return, Peter settled down to a less than satisfying evening alone with TV sports and beer. He switched on the TV, but after five minutes of staring blankly at the screen, he gave up and moved over to the table to pull up Neal's tracking data. He felt a little regret at the necessity and a slight guilt at the lack of trust it represented, but both were dismissed with ease because at some point he couldn't accurately pinpoint, the goal of monitoring Neal's whereabouts had shifted from preventing the recidivism of a potential asset to keeping a trouble-prone friend safe. What was a little invasion of privacy between friends?

His initial relief at the anklet placing Neal exactly where he was supposed to be quickly faded to irritation as the locating circle blinked blandly and uninformatively at him. If the conman ventured out of his apartment, it would at least provide Peter with clues as to his plans, but he remained stubbornly stationary. Maybe he really was sick.

El came home shortly after eleven to find her husband dividing his attention between the unmoving tracker and an equally boring basketball game, with the occasional ruffle of Satchmo's fur for variety. She dropped a kiss on Peter's waiting lips then shoved his feet off the sofa to make room for herself beside him. Taking in the open tracking data, she quirked a smile.

"So what's the working theory this time?"

Peter shook his head ruefully, remembering some of his more paranoid suggestions. "Apart from the ever present possibility of him working to find Kate's killer, I don't even have the germ of a theory. It's just a vague feeling, a hunch. Not even that, it's the hunch of a hunch."

"When it comes to Neal, I'd take your vague feeling over anybody else's strongest proof," El told him confidently. "Do you think he's in trouble?"

"I think he's..." the words to describe his impression eluded him. "I just think something might be wrong. Don't worry about it. Everything seems calm at the moment."

He tugged his wife down until she was snuggled tight against his side, her head tucked into his neck. "Why don't you tell me about your day?"

Another quick check the following morning showed that Neal had remained in his apartment all night, so Peter forgot his concerns long enough to enjoy breakfast with his wife. Since Neal had secured the gig for El at the Channing Museum, her business had expanded to capacity, and she was riding the momentum, hiring more helpers and enjoying the accomplishment. Peter didn't begrudge her either the success or the long hours she was working. After all, his job had never lent itself to short or regular hours, and El had never complained, but he did miss her. He hadn't realised how much he relied on her as a sounding board.

Shortly after El had left, he received a text message from Neal - which, to his mind, was a suspicious circumstance in itself.

_So what are the medical benefits for a CI?_

Peter hated texting, his thumbs lacking the agility for any sort of speed. Moreover, he had no intention of forgoing what advantages he could garner from hearing Neal's voice and analyzing tone, stress and hesitation, so he dialed back.

Neal picked up immediately. "Hey, Peter." He sounded tired and a little hoarse, and a glimmer of guilt tickled along the back of Peter's brain. He reminded himself that his suspicions were for Neal's own good and not a betrayal of their friendship.

"Hey, we could probably scrape up a bandaid if you have a paper cut," he opened lightly.

"Good to know. How about a day off for what could be a highly contagious case of the bird flu?"

"Do we have bird flu in this country?"

"We have birds."

"Well, that clinches it." Nobody made him smile as easily as Neal. Of course, no one could frustrate him quite as quickly either. "I think you've more than earned yourself a sick day or two. Call me if you need anything and...don't do anything stupid."

Peter closed the phone and sat turning it over absently in his hands, its smooth surfaces rubbing against his fingers. Ever since Neal had stated, with unmistakable sincerity, that he had never lied to him, Peter had listened more carefully to his words, sorting out the few definitive statements from the multitude of suggestions and obvious misdirects. It was clear to him now that Neal had at no point declared he was actually ill which was tantamount to an admission that he wasn't.

Neal appeared to be asking for some time. Working theory number one - his PTSD was flaring up. Nightmares and insomnia would explain the physical symptoms. Working theory number two - he had discovered a lead to Kate's death and wanted a day or two to pursue it. In Peter's opinion, door number two looked most promising.

Slipping the phone into his pocket, Peter wondered how many hours he'd spent trying to figure out the inner workings of Neal's mind from the slender hints he dropped, rare pieces to the complex puzzle. Life would be so much simpler if the young man were more willing to reveal his thoughts. Peter forcibly ignored the little voice that said life would also be boring. Still, a silent request was better than nothing, so he would give Neal the space he wanted while remaining vigilant.

Peter had barely entered the White Collar Unit when he was summoned into Hughes' office by two imperious fingers.

"New case," his boss announced without preamble, then paused. "Where's Caffrey?"

"Sick day," Peter responded with equal brevity.

Hughes arched an eyebrow. "Genuinely sick?"

Peter felt as if he'd reverted to ninth grade, covering for his best friend skipping class. "He looked pretty bad last night." He was spending way too much time with Neal if he was using the conman's techniques of prevarication to evade awkward questions.

"That's a shame. This is right up his alley. We're looking at a diamond heist." Hughes handed over a slim file for Peter's perusal. "Janssen's, one of the sightholders for the DTC, was robbed last night. The thieves got past security guards, surveillance cameras, and motion detectors to get to the diamonds, which were in a vault."

Peter looked up from the paperwork. "Inside job?"

"That's for you to determine. The stones were rough, so they'll be more or less impossible to trace. They're expecting you at Janssen's. Talk to a Mary Cassela."

Janssen's Diamond Merchants were located in a squat, nondescript building on 56th street, the exterior belying the riches that passed through its doors. New York was one of the five main diamond centers of the world, but there weren't many sightholders - companies that bought rough diamonds directly from the all-powerful Diamond Trading Company to sell to manufacturers - and the general public was unaware of the role they played in the multi-billion dollar business. This made the inside job theory even more plausible which probably accounted for the general air of anxiety permeating the building.

Mary Cassela was also gratifyingly eager to please, which made a nice contrast to the frequent stonewalling they encountered on such jobs. Her assistant, Sung Li, took Diana, Jones, and the team to start interviewing the staff while she ran through the security system with Peter.

Not for the first time, Peter was acutely aware of the empty space by his side. He told himself sternly that he was an excellent agent before Neal Caffrey came along, but honesty forced him to admit he was an even better one with Neal as his partner. Their knowledge and skills complemented each other, and the job was altogether more fun with the younger man to challenge him. Right now he would like his friend's opinion as to whether the security was as impenetrable as it looked, or if he could spot critical weaknesses.

No system was perfect, as the history of diamond heists proved, but a breach of this nature would usually require more blunt force. This robbery had been precise and clean with a distinct lack of evidence. Although the failure of the cameras remained inexplicable, Peter was at least able to determine the method of ingress. The thieves had come down from the roof and through the window of a small bathroom, which was now being swept for trace evidence.

Peter was trying to figure out how they accessed the roof. It wasn't a particularly tall building, only eight stories, similar to its immediate neighbours but dwarfed by many in the surrounding area. There were no convenient fire escapes or scalable drainpipes.

It was another scorching day, and Peter used a hand to shield his face from the sun as he revolved slowly in place, analysing the possibilities.

"Maybe they parachuted in," Cassela offered helpfully.

"Possible, but unlikely. That's a stunt more suited to movies than real life. There are very strict rules for any planes flying over the city, and trying to hit a small target like this with all the higher buildings around would be virtually impossible."

He walked over the to the west side of the roof. "Look at these marks here. I think we have a very talented cat burglar who used some kind of rope system to come over from that building."

He pulled out his phone. "Jones, leave the rest of the interviews for Diana. I want you to go round the area for several blocks, concentrating on the west side, and pull any video surveillance footage there is. Maybe we can catch them before or after they committed the crime."

It took several hours to collect and analyse that data, and it was late afternoon and Peter was back in his office by the time the preliminary results were ready. He looked up from the computer as Jones entered. "Anything?"

The other agent grimaced. "Yes, but nothing that will really help. We caught a glimpse of someone, enough to verify your theory, but he's wearing a ski mask, so we can't identify him. Here's what we've got." He plugged the zip drive into the computer.

"There's nothing on any other tapes showing how he approached the area. He just shows up...here."

The gritty video feed showed a man dressed in black, carrying a large backpack. He was only on the screen for a few seconds, walking swiftly at an angle away from the camera. He looked around briefly, jumped up and caught something, then disappeared up out of view.

Peter swallowed despite a suddenly dry throat, his breath catching in his lungs, oxygen suddenly too thick to draw in. A cold sheen of sweat prickled his back, and for a long moment the erratic thumping of his heart seemed to drown out all other sounds. He didn't need to see a face - the swing of the shoulders, the tilt of the head, the coiled athleticism of movement were all too familiar.

"Is there more?" He fought to keep his voice level and unaffected.

"Yep, he comes back down forty minutes later."

The slim figure reappeared even more abruptly, swinging down, releasing to land lightly on the ground. Peter had witnessed that identical move after a swan dive from the fourth floor onto an awning. Then it had been followed by a self-deprecating shrug in his direction, but Peter was left in no doubt now.

The thief was Neal Caffrey.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review. It means so much to know you're enjoying the story. Lyn, if you want an answer to that question, e-mail me privately, since I don't want to just announce that!

Thanks also to my beta, Susan, who somehow found time in her insanely busy schedule to work on this.

To the Neal lovers among you - I knew he hasn't made much of an appearance yet, but be patient! He has a major role to play.

Scapegoat Chapter 2

Neal had stolen the diamonds.

That revelation acted like a lump of debris clogging a fuel line, causing Peter's brain to repeatedly misfire, sputtering in an effort to wrap around its reality before it stalled completely.

It was clear that Jones had noticed nothing incriminating on the video, so Peter tried to maintain a casual attitude. He took a swig of the gritty dregs of tepid coffee sitting in a mug printed with the words, 'Old forgers never die, they just leave no trace,' a gift from Neal. Like Drano, the liquid blasted through his system, dissolving his mental blockages as, for a moment, his mind was completely focused on how revolting the drink tasted. With masochistic determination he upended the mug, draining the last of the sludge with a grimace.

He answered a question from Jones and gave him some instructions, but he felt detached from the situation, from his own words. He was by nature a decisive man, and his FBI training and experience had honed that trait. But now he felt adrift in a sea of indecision. Yet he was also aware that, by keeping his suspicions secret, he'd at least committed himself to floating in a certain direction. But not only did he have no idea what he wanted to do about the situation, he couldn't even come to grips with what he was feeling.

There was a confusion of intense emotions seething inside, but he couldn't drag any of them close enough to examine them. He felt slightly sick and off balance, as if he'd tilted slowly sideways and was in danger of toppling over.

"Boss, are you feeling okay?"

Clearly he wasn't doing as good a job at hiding his distraction as he would like to believe. Jones was a good agent and had developed into a personal friend within the office, but his concern was unwelcome at this time.

"I think I'm coming down with what Caffrey's got." And wasn't that a double-edged statement. He'd also just sailed further down the river of denial while giving himself some space to sort things through without raising suspicion. It could almost qualify as a plan.

He took a deep breath. As the immediacy of watching the video feed faded, he began to hope he'd been mistaken, that he had merely become accustomed to seeing Neal Caffrey-shaped shadows round every corner. In the context of crime, the infuriating conman had infiltrated every crevice of his mind, so his subconscious had already identified him as a likely suspect. It was, after all, a Caffrey blueprint: the complete lack of violence, the meticulous planning, the slick dexterity of application. It was no wonder he was predisposed to believe it was Neal.

He stood up, pulling on his jacket. "Help Diana check the backgrounds of the Janssen employees and cross reference the MO with other heists. I'm going to check out a little early today. Call me if anything comes up."

There was only one place to go when he was unable to pin down the squirming mass of his own thoughts or, more accurately, one person. He dialed El on the way to his car. "Hey, honey."

It was amazing how the sound of her voice helped to center him. "Peter, is everything okay?"

"Yes...no...it's complicated. I need to talk to you. Can I come by your office? I know you're busy, but it's important." He tried not to worry her by sounding too desperate.

"Of course. I'm with the florist at the moment, but I can be there in fifteen minutes. Will that work?"

"Thanks, honey. I love you." As he slid the phone back into his pocket, his fingers closed on the zip drive he'd palmed as he left the office. It was merely a copy of the data, so it wasn't like he was compromising the chain of evidence. After all, he was an agent, he couldn't...he wouldn't...even if it meant...but Neal wasn't...Damn it!

Even a year ago, concealing information would have been unthinkable, but a lot had changed since then. The world of black and white had turned innumerable shades of gray. His belief in the unimpeachable integrity and infallibility of the FBI had been shaken mostly by Garrett Fowler's long list of possibly OPR-sanctioned crimes, which had very possibly culminated in murder. On the other side of the coin, his friendship with Neal had shown him a criminal who exemplified loyalty and an admittedly skewed, but genuine, version of honour. Caught in this dichotomy, Peter felt himself being pulled apart at the seams, long-standing convictions starting to fray at the edges.

El was waiting for him when he arrived at her office. This was where she met with clients, and it reflected the smart trendiness she wanted associated with her business. Neither the decor or the artwork were to his taste; he preferred the simple comfort of their home. However, he never mentioned that to El, not wanting to hurt her feelings or appear like a Neanderthal.

Reading the tension in his posture and expression, she asked no questions, but moved into his arms and held on tight. The warmth of her embrace flowed through him, restoring his balance. Even without speaking, his wife could always reset the polarity of his internal compass.

In the way of long-married couples, they separated at some silently, but mutually agreed upon, moment with a final kiss. El's soft blue eyes searched his face once more and seemed satisfied with what they found. "What happened?" she asked gently.

It was a simple question, yet Peter found himself struggling with the words. Then the obvious solution struck him. He needed an impartial observer to corroborate his conclusion. He guided her over to her desk.

"I need you to watch something, honey, and tell me what you think."

"Okay," she said agreeably, seating herself at the computer.

Peter watched it with her, trying to look with an objective eye, but once again a sinking, sick feeling gathered around his heart and trickled down into his belly. Again, the recognition was visceral. It was Neal.

However, when it finished there was a puzzled crease on Elizabeth's forehead. "So, what did he do?" she inquired.

"Diamond heist," he answered shortly.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"Watch it again."

She stared at the screen again obediently, but it was knowledge of her husband that helped her to the correct answer. "You think it might be Neal."

"It IS Neal." It came out as a frustrated shout, and he immediately lifted his hands in apology. "Sorry, I'm sorry."

She smiled in understanding and gestured for him to replay the footage. "He's the right build," she agreed when it finished. "But it's just a few seconds of feed at a moderate distance. It's not clear, and you can't see his face. Honey, you'd have to be sure. This is a serious accusation."

Peter was caught between unexpected relief and irritation. If no one else saw Neal Caffrey in that dark-clothed figure, maybe he was safe, but some independent verification would have reassured him that he wasn't Caffrey obsessed.

It occurred to him where the discrepancy lay. El typically saw Neal sitting on the couch petting Satchmo or sitting at the breakfast table scrabbling like a six year old for the toy in a cereal box. Seeing Neal at his most urbane, impeccably dressed and suavely mannered, no one would ever guess the tensile strength in that slim body, the superb athleticism.

Peter was the only one who'd seen the fourth-floor dive, the split-second perfect marksmanship with the shotgun, the embodiment of grace that was Neal Caffrey in action.

"I know exactly how serious this is," he answered belatedly. He caught his voice rising again and strode away to the other side of the desk ostensibly to examine a painting hanging from the wall. He was trying to wrap himself in self-righteous anger like armor to prevent the devastation he was truly feeling from making itself known. But he was failing. Under the sympathetic eyes of the one person he didn't need to hide from, he finally confessed his worse fear.

"El, they'll send him away for twenty years for this one. I can't protect him."

Despite how softly he'd spoken, the words sounded immense, loud, echoing through the quiet of the room, as if he had shouted them at the top of his lungs. The reverberations of that failure expanded with each breath he took, settling deeper in his bones.

When had it become about protecting Neal? It had started before that artless confession in the Howser Clinic, but that was the first time Peter had stepped over an invisible line to steal the tape. It had deepened into something far more visceral when he'd struggled to prevent the young man from throwing himself into an inferno, then held him as he broke down in a desolation of grief.

Peter took the two steps necessary to deposit himself on the black leather sofa and looked back at his wife. El's expression mirrored his own distress. "Twenty years! That's..."

He nodded, the unspoken words ringing in his ears. Neal wouldn't survive that long in jail and still remain Neal. It was too horrific to contemplate.

In an attempt to comfort them both, he pointed out wryly, "Of course, no prison has a hope of holding him that long. He'd probably escape in a few weeks."

He knew that the only reason Neal had stayed for almost his entire sentence last time was that he wanted to leave a free man. The physical restriction of a two-mile radius often chafed as much as the anklet itself.

Peter muttered almost to himself. "He told me the last thing he wanted was to be on the run. That's why this makes no sense."

El came over and sat next to him on the sofa, taking hold of his nearest hand in both of hers. "What are you going to do?"

Peter took a deep breath, trying to reconcile FBI agent and friend. Eventually he locked his turmoil down enough that he could think about what he needed to do next. "Neither you nor Jones recognise Neal from that video. I'm the only one who does. I have no proof. I'll investigate this case as I would any other, following the leads where they take me." He gave her a grim smile. "Let's hope Neal is as good as he thinks he is."

He leaned back, resting his head against the wall. "I don't understand. How could he do this? How could he put me in this position?" The pain of that betrayal, that he'd attempted to bury, resurfaced. "You know, he told me once that the money wasn't important, but how can this be anything else? Can it have anything to do with Kate's death? Damn it, why would he do this?"

"Why don't you ask him," El suggested practically.

"Why don't..." He broke off, then, in an entirely different tone, stated, "I could do that. In fact, that's exactly what I need to do." Peter stood up. El, happy to see a sense of renewed purpose in her husband, returned to her desk. The frozen picture of the cat-burglar still adorned her screen, and, for a moment, she stared at it.

"Peter." She caught him as he was going out the door. "When was this taken?"

"Two o'clock in the mo..." He froze, the meaning of her question striking him. "The tracker!"

El laughed a trifle giddily. "You said it showed he was home all night, so he couldn't have done it."

A quick glance showed her the familiar sight of her husband lost in deliberation, his mind busy sieving through the implications of the new information. The concerned, hurt friend had yielded to the focused, controlled FBI agent. The sight of Peter in full throttle of thought never failed to enthrall El, and she watched indulgently until her need for reassurance reasserted itself.

"This does mean Neal didn't do it, right?"

It took at least half a minute for the question to percolate through the complex layers of thought, and Peter's gaze was still abstracted when he looked up.

Finally he responded, his voice slow at first, as if the friction of too much speculation retarded it, but it soon picked up momentum. "It means that I was wrong, but not about that. Maybe this does have something to do with Kate's death after all. I just wasn't thinking straight. This puts everything in an entirely different light."

"You were worried about your partner. Even FBI agents are allowed to do that."

But Peter wasn't listening again. El couldn't resist teasing. "Maybe Neal's learnt to pick the lock on this one, or maybe you were _wrong_."

The emphasis on the last word caught his attention. "Wrong? I married the most beautiful, most brilliant woman in the world. Doesn't that say something about my superb record of perspicacity?" He walked over to catch her up in a hug. "Thanks. Look, don't wait up for me. I'll be home late, and it's entirely possible I won't make it at all tonight."

She grimaced. "Neither will I now. I'll give Ellen a call and ask her to feed and walk Satchmo. I'm not going to be finished here for a long time. The party's tomorrow night, remember."

She brushed off his apology. "I do my best work under pressure. Tonight, I'll thrive! Just let me know how things go."

Peter arrived at June's house safely, but he wasn't sure how. He didn't remember anything from the journey, his mind churning with the ramifications of his discoveries to the exclusion of trivial externals such as other vehicles. He was lucky enough to find a parking space within sight of the parapet of the rooftop patio. It glowed with a dim light from Neal's apartment. The tracking data informed him that Neal was inside the building, but Peter no longer placed any faith in that information.

He sat in the car for over an hour, a self-imposed stakeout, not so much to keep an eye on Neal's movements as to see if anyone else had the young man under surveillance. The house was quiet; there was no sign of occupation and, as far as Peter could tell, there was no one else showing interest in the location. It was after eleven when he walked slowly up the steps and tried the door handle. He wasn't surprised to find it locked and, after a moment's hesitation at the thought of disturbing June, rang the bell. He recognised the maid who answered and apologised for the late intrusion. She informed him that June was away for the week visiting family out of state, and assured him it was no trouble.

It seemed so much longer than a day since he had so lightheartedly climbed the same stairs. So much had changed, with the potential of much greater upheaval to come, and Peter realised he had been happy with the status quo.

He knocked softly, almost reluctantly, as if the intrusion itself would precipitate that upheaval. There was no response, so Peter hammered louder. "Neal, are you in there?"

Despite a hollowness to the sound that made him sure the room was empty, he panicked a little, imagining Neal inside, unconscious, left alone all day to the ravages of an unknown illness. He threw open the door and charged in, looking around frantically. "Neal...Neal!"

Neal's apartment was spacious, but it only took a second to verify his initial assumption. Despite the assurance of the tracking data, his friend was nowhere in sight. He checked the patio too, knowing it was futile, then closed the outside doors shut behind him. "Neal, what the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?"

With too much adrenaline coursing through his system to relax, Peter prowled around the apartment. He wasn't trying to intrude on his friend's privacy, but a clue as to Neal's whereabouts would be...well, a start.

There was an emptiness to the room that was almost tangible, and though Peter couldn't see anything that was out of place, he wondered if Neal wasn't intending to come back. There was one person who might be able to reassure him on that count. Mozz's paranoid suspicions about 'the Suit' had been assuaged far enough for him to give Peter a contact number for emergencies. In Peter's opinion, this constituted an emergency in spades.

He dialed from memory, since Mozz had insisted the number was never to be committed to paper or electronics, and waited for the dial tone. The voice that answered was not the one he hoped to hear, neither was the message. "The number you have dialed is not in service at this time."

He resisted the urge to hurl the phone at some unyielding object, but his concern ratcheted up exponentially. Mozz might not be the most reliable of people, but it struck Peter as ominous that the strange little man was suddenly unreachable. Either he'd gone to ground or he didn't expect to have any more positive contact with the FBI. Neither option augured well for Neal's continued employment at the agency.

He strode over to the refrigerator and plucked out a bottle of the beer that Neal stocked for him, before sitting heavily in one of the upright chairs by the table. The muscles in his neck were painfully tense. He closed his eyes and rolled the unopened cool beer bottle along his forehead, hoping it might avert the headache that was crawling up from his over-tight shoulders. The one with the sledgehammer attached.

Sitting in the chair, hoping for the door to open reminded him inescapably of the night he'd spent waiting for Kate's return to her hotel room. He really regretted not being able to save Kate. The poor girl hadn't deserved to die like that. However, it was the memory of Neal staring out over the city, dry-eyed, but his face tight with anguish, that really haunted Peter. However, he remained convinced that she would have broken his friend's heart sooner or later. Whether or not she had actually sold Neal out, her affections were more materially than romantically based. Now it seemed that even beyond the grave she was capable of causing trouble, and once again Peter was a spectator to the wreckage she left behind.

The chair wasn't as comfortable as the one in Kate's room, but he didn't move, except to swing the bottle of beer gently between his fingers. The silence was only broken by the rumble of traffic outside, the monotonous ticking of a clock, and the almost imperceptible rustle of something on the patio. It was only after the moon swung up high in the sky that he heard the slight creak of someone climbing the stairs. That person wasn't being particularly stealthy, but neither was he making fast progress. Peter leaned forward in expectation.

Neal opened the door, then shut it quietly behind him, resting back on its bulk wearily. He didn't immediately notice his visitor, an unusual lack of observation for him. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, dark slacks and, despite the warmth of the night, a light jacket wrapped around him. In that unguarded moment, there was an air of defeat surrounding him, more even than when Peter had captured him for the second time. The dark circles under his eyes and the tired posture as he leaned against the door emphasised this exhaustion.

Belatedly sensing another presence, he looked up, startled, straight into Peter's eyes. All motion froze, and seemingly, so did time. Silence stretched between them, swelling up and encasing them in a bubble of tension.

"Peter." It was a hoarse whisper, not the strong sound uttered in the hanger, but it contained so many similar elements. It was a question, it was a plea. It held guilt, uncertainty, and, most strongly and strangely, it held hope. But it was the desperate trust in his eyes that had Peter on his feet and moving before he was aware of his own intentions.

Neal took a step away from the door and crumpled like a loose suit of clothing. By dint of a slide on his knees that would have put a professional baseball player to shame, Peter caught him before his head hit the floor.

"Neal!"

Fine tremors were shaking the young man's body as he lay surprisingly heavy in Peter's arms. The agent's immediate assumption was that he'd been wrong about Neal's illness. It was not feigned but indeed life-threatening, so the shock hit him like a punch to the gut as Neal's hand slipped out from under his jacket, sticky with fresh blood.

"You're bleeding," he exclaimed incredulously, inanely, surprise rendering him momentarily immobile. A second later his training kicked in, and he rolled Neal off his legs, supporting him carefully until he was flat on his back, restraining his friend's sluggish attempt to curl up again protectively around his side. "Easy, easy. I need to have a look."

He peeled back the dark, sodden jacket. One glance at the hole in the sweater and the torn flesh underneath told him what had happened.

"You've been shot!"


	3. Chapter 3

Scapegoat Ch 3

Peter fumbled for his phone with one hand while keeping the other on Neal, unconsciously needing the assurance that he was still breathing. However, before he started to dial, bloodstained fingers wrapped weakly around his wrist.

"Don't, Peter, please."

Peter temporarily abandoned his attempt to call for help in favour of restraining his friend, who was trying to sit up.

"Damn it, keep still. You're bleeding all over the place. Keep still!"

In the end, Neal won the struggle, mostly because Peter was afraid of causing more damage. He inched back to rest gingerly against the wall, eyes closed, hand tucked back against his injured side. Peter half-knelt beside him, still poised to use his cell phone.

A sliver of pained blue regarded him from under heavy lids. "Would you think it was cliched of me if I said it was just a scratch?"

Peter was in no mood for humour. "You get a scratch from a cat, Neal. When it's from a gun we call it a bullet wound, and it needs immediate medical attention. That's why I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Come on, Peter, you have to have experience with things like this. What do you do if you come across someone who's hurt?"

"I take them to the hospital," Peter responded testily.

Neal's fluent tongue seems to have deserted him, and he was floundering. "You must have some medical training from the FBI. What does the FBI manual instruct you to do?"

"Take them to the hospital. Can you see a pattern here, Neal?"

Neal's fingers plucked forlornly at a tear in his slacks. "I can't go to the hospital. They have to report gunshot wounds."

"So do I," Peter pointed out shortly.

"Peter, you can't, not now. You don't understand what's at stake here." Neal's eyes were overbright in his ashen face, pleading.

With a grunt of frustration, Peter looked around the room, then strode over to pick up a small hand towel that looked clean from the kitchen. Folding it into a wedge, he returned to Neal's side.

"Enlighten me, and if you can explain it to me without bleeding to death that would be a bonus."

Neal eyed the cloth a little fuzzily, then gory fingers shakily reached out to take it. Gingerly placing it against his side, his face, already drawn, turned several shades paler.

Hearing the tight rasp of Neal's breathing and seeing the contortion of pain in his expression, Peter's own emotions rose in a tidal wave for which he was totally unprepared. It was as if the sight had broken a dam, and now all the fear, helplessness and consequent anger washed through him.

"Damn it Neal, I can't do this. I'm an FBI agent, not a doctor!"

"Did you just misquote Star Trek at me?" Neal's voice was thin and raspy. He strove for his usual carefree smirk, but managed only a grimace.

Peter stared at him incredulously. "You're lying there bleeding. What makes you think I'd be quoting Star Trek at you? This isn't a joke."

Neal hung his head. "Sorry, I think I'm a bit..." He gestured vaguely with the hand that wasn't holding the makeshift pressure pad in place. The slump of his shoulders made him look utterly defeated.

Caffrey could drive Peter crazy faster than Superman could leap tall buildings, but he could disarm him just as fast.

"We need some help with this. Maybe June...damn it, she's away isn't she." Peter considered calling El, but even if she weren't so busy, he didn't want her caught up in this mess. Plausible deniability was for wives too. "I don't suppose Mozz holds some type of degree in medicine?" he ventured hopefully.

"Mozz is...he's not available at the moment. He's...doing something for me out of town."

That was a really suspicious statement, and the cynical side of Peter almost asked if Mozz was away hocking diamonds, but he wasn't ready for that conversation yet. He needed to focus on treating Neal's injury.

"You have to do it." Increasingly hazy eyes blinked trustingly at him.

As if that wasn't number one with a bullet on Peter's list of worst ideas he's ever heard. But he'd followed the mathematics of the situation, and, once everybody else had been subtracted from the equation, that left him. He needed to follow his own favourite advice and 'cowboy up.' He dragged up everything he could remember about bullet wounds from memories of scanty first-aid courses.

"Okay, here's the deal. I will assess your injury. However, if I deem it life-threatening or beyond my capabilities to treat, I will take you to the hospital if I have to knock you out and carry you. Got it?"

Neal took a good look at the tight lines around his friend's mouth and the set of his jaw and nodded agreeably. "Got it." There would always be time to renegotiate the arrangement if it didn't work out in his favour.

Peter eased the young man out of his jacket, turning him slightly toward the light before carefully lifting up the torn sweater. The copper tang of blood stung his nostrils and its warm stickiness clung to his fingers, but, to his immense relief, the bullet wound, while not a scratch, wasn't as serious as he'd originally feared.

The bullet had hit Neal at a strange downward angle, and Peter suspected his friend had been diving out of the way or off a building. It had glanced off a rib then punctured just slightly below the rib cage and almost immediately exited. There was no danger of internal damage, but he was sure the rib was broken.

Neal's eyes were closed again, but every muscle was tense in anticipation.

Peter sat back on his heels to deliver his summation. "I'd much rather a professional looked at things, but for now, I think we can clean it up and trust you won't keel over dead before morning."

There was a slight quirk of a smile. "That's so encouraging to know."

Peter tried to maintain a matter-of-fact attitude. "Where does June keep her first-aid kit?"

Neal didn't seem to register the question, his mind increasingly clouded by blood loss and pain. Peter gently grasped his friend's shoulder to recapture his attention. "Neal?"

As hazy blue eyes finally wandered over to meet his and acknowledge his presence, Peter repeated his question. "I need to know where the first-aid kit is?"

Neal's swallow clicked on a dry throat. "Bathroom, one floor down."

Leaving the young man in this confused condition trampled on every one of Peter's protective instincts, but he had no choice.

"Neal, I have to go downstairs. I will be as quick as I can. Do not move. I don't want the bleeding to start again. Just stay right here. Do you understand?"

Neal squinted up at him. "Sit, stay," he summarised succinctly. That touch of Caffrey humour did more to reassure Peter than his own diagnosis.

Peter rifled through the medicine cabinet with no regard for privacy or tidiness, knowing that June would place Neal's welfare above such petty concerns. He shoved the medical supplies into his pockets, then grabbed an armload of towels and headed back up the stairs.

For once, Neal was exactly where he'd left him, and, for once, that obedience was almost discouraging. Peter dropped the towels beside him and hurried off to finish his preparations. When he returned to Neal's side, he was surprised to find his friend not only conscious, but also slightly more alert. He held out a couple of painkillers.

"These are the strongest I could find. Take them with this milk; it'll help them stay down."

Neal regarded the white pills with disfavour and made no move to take them.

"Are you feeling nauseous?"

There was an almost imperceptible nod. Peter grimaced sympathetically. "Yeah, but you need to take them. They'll take the edge off and help you sleep."

"Actually," Neal told him confidingly. "I was thinking of bypassing sleep in favour of passing out."

Peter chuckled. "That's a plan, but if you can hold out until you're on the bed, I'd appreciate it. I happen to know you're heavier than you look."

Neal took the pills unsteadily while Peter fetched some hot water. He wanted to give the injured man one last chance to choose the sensible option of a medical professional.

"You do realise that I know far more about causing bullet wounds than dressing them." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually I know more about forensic science - you know bullet holes in dead guys than..."

Neal cut him off. "You really haven't got the bedside manner thing down, Florence."

Peter decided not to take affront at what was definitely a true statement. "I believe in truth in advertising. Just want to make sure you know what you're letting yourself in for when you decided that this is preferable to a nice, comfortable, _medicated_ hospital treatment."

Neal didn't respond, but his expression clearly stated that he felt he had no choice. With a grim nod of acknowledgment, Peter got started.

He picked up a pair of large, sharp scissors. Neal's eyes widened as the large blades were brandished in front of him, but then he merely tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. The implicit trust in that gesture made something in Peter's chest tighten.

He cut away the torn sweater with the heavy scissors, not wanting to jar the broken rib. He cleaned the area as carefully as he could, keeping his touch as light as possible, but he didn't want to draw the ordeal out any more than he had to. He could feel Neal's heart kicking against his ribs, his breath short and hitching with each inhalation. Anger began to seep in, and he grabbed on to it tightly, even though he knew it was a cheap replacement for the guilt he felt at hurting his friend, even inadvertently.

"Who did this to you?" he demanded curtly.

The answer was slow in coming and slightly slurred. "A man with a gun."

"You can do better than that."

"I didn't stop to ask his name, Peter. I was busy ducking." Neal was simply too tired to summon up any real irritation in his response, and Peter realised this was another conversation that should be shelved for a later time.

He tried to finish as fast as he could, but Neal had moved past pale and into gray by the time Peter was done, though the young man had stayed silent, barely flinching. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and tremors coursed through him almost continuously.

"It's done. Let's hope we can get some antibiotics into you before it goes septic." Peter wrapped a hand around the back of his friend's too-warm neck and squeezed gently, attempting to offer comfort and support even if his words were less than reassuring. Neal was almost completely limp, the shudders periodically shaking him the only sign of life.

Peter eyed the bed calculatingly, regretting the fact that he hadn't moved Neal there before patching him up. The broken rib precluded such crude tactics as dragging him the few yards or the strenuous alternative of a fireman's lift. For a moment, he contemplated the couch which was considerably closer, but it would offer an uncomfortable night even without injuries. It had to be the bed, but to make the move feasible, Neal needed to actively participate.

He shifted his hand slightly, bracing Neal's drooping head. "The floor's not the best place for a nap. You need to get up." He tapped him gently on the cheek, but there was no response. Hating himself for what he was about to do, but acknowledging the necessity, Peter summoned his most authoritative tone. "Caffrey, on your feet, now!"

Dazed eyes opened with a start, and Neal obediently worked himself into a more upright position on shaky arms. Faced with that uncomprehending compliance, Peter found it impossible to maintain his hard-line approach, but he went with the momentum, looping Neal's left arm over his own shoulder.

"You can do this, buddy. One, two, up."

The involuntary cry of pain wrenched from Neal's throat was a harsher punishment for Peter than anything he himself could have devised, but he couldn't relent now. "Just a few more steps," he encouraged. "Keep going."

The short, shallow pants, each breath tinged with a moan, revealed the extent of Neal's exertion, but despite his best efforts, Peter was essentially carrying him. Conscious of the strain they must be putting on the young man's broken rib, the few yards felt like a mile to Peter, but they finally arrived at their destination, where Peter lowered him gently, then manhandled him into lying on his uninjured side, two judiciously placed pillows ensuring he'd stay in that position.

"Damn it! What the hell am I doing!" Peter glared at Neal's unconscious body, but his friend was impervious to that expression while he was awake, so it was hardly surprising it wasn't very effective when he was asleep. It did help to relieve Peter's feelings.

He knew that, consciously or not, Neal depended on him to curb his impulsivity, to provide a brake to his outrageous schemes. But Peter was operating in a knowledge vacuum, and until he knew what was going on, anything he did could exacerbate the situation. He needed information, but Neal had been in no condition to provide it that evening.

With a last check on Neal, Peter stumbled to the bathroom. He scrubbed his bloody hands and waited for them to stop trembling. After several deep breaths, he splashed cold water on his face while deciding his next move. Every instinct still insisted that he take Neal to the hospital. Returning to the bedroom, the rise and fall of Neal's chest assured him that his friend was still alive, but his face was covered with a light sheen of sweat, and his face periodically twisted in spasms of pain. This sight added another mental tally to the pro column of his mental decision making process of whether or not to take Neal to hospital. It was only the competing picture of the young man in an orange jumpsuit that stopped him from dialing for an ambulance.

At a loss to know what else to do, Peter dragged a chair closer and resigned himself to a sleepless night keeping watch over his injured friend. Exhaustion, however, foiled his best intentions. His eyes slipped inexorably closed, and sleep pulled him under.

Pale light from the rising sun woke him a couple of hours later, and he checked on Neal in a panic. He was relieved to discover that, although Neal was still too warm and flushed, the sweating had stopped. He still shivered intermittently, but it was barely noticeable now. Peter was confident that once Neal woke up, he would be well enough to talk, and he had a feeling that their conversation would be _very_ interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Are you the type of fan who would be very happy to have an episode that consisted of Peter and Neal in a room together talking? If so, this chapter is for you. I have to admit, this is my favourite and it's long! All is revealed, but it's not over yet. Also, please remember that this chapter was written before the second part of Season 2 was aired.

A very big thank you to my wonderful beta, Susan, for working on this monster even though she had ten billion other things to do.

Scapegoat Ch 4

The soft click of a door closing infiltrated his sleep, prying him loose from his dreams. In his life as a conman, Neal had woken up disorientated and in pain before, but it had been a while. He lay still, trying to catalog his injuries and parse his surroundings before committing himself to opening his eyes. Had someone just entered the room?

Memory quickly swarmed back, although some of the events of the previous night were vague. The one thing that stood out in merciless clarity was Peter's presence. Neal's eyes snapped open involuntarily, searching for his friend. An empty chair next to the bed suggested it was the agent's departure that had roused him from sleep.

Anxiety curled in his stomach, and he attempted to sit up. The shockwave the movement sent through his side had his eyes slamming shut in pain. He swiveled around, trying to minimize the pressure on his rib, groaning as he pushed the obstructing pillows to the head of the bed and dropped his legs off the mattress. He didn't immediately try to stand but sat for a while scrubbing a hand over his face and contemplating his next move.

The contraction of muscles as he shifted to rise sent a wave of agony through his side, but he straightened up resolutely, wobbling a little around the knees. Once upright, he swayed in place and almost fell before regaining some of his equilibrium. Slow steps took him to the bathroom, following the longer path of the perimeter to steady himself against a wall whenever possible. The water he splashed on his face felt blissfully cool against his overheated skin, but he skipped most of his usual ablutions - a quick brush of his teeth his only concession to his normal hygiene routine.

He ran out of energy half way back to his bed, and that's where Peter found him when he returned to the room. Neal was leaning awkwardly against a book case, taking short, careful breaths, one arm wrapped around his ribs as if he were holding himself together. Alarmed at the tremors he could see jolting through his friend's entire body, Peter moved forward to help him negotiate the last few feet. He backed off as Neal raised his hands defensively. "I can manage."

There was an awkward silence as Neal managed to reach the bed, propelled by stubbornness and a hatred of appearing weak in front of the man he admired. He avoided looking at Peter, concentrating on inching back on the bed until he was sitting bolt upright against the pillows, fingers fussing at the covers.

"How're you feeling?" Peter asked, his tone neutral. But a quick glance at the stiff way he was holding his shoulders informed Neal that the tension coiling inside the agent was almost ready to explode.

"I'm fine," Neal asserted brightly, even though he felt more than a few shades off fine. Peter didn't even bother looking skeptical; he merely waited for a more accurate answer, and Neal, realising that was one con he wasn't going to win, amended his response appeasingly to, "A little sore, but nothing that won't wear off in a few days."

Keen eyes examined him carefully, and, not for the first time, Neal suspected that they saw more than he wanted them to. It left him feeling off balance and vulnerable. A nervous swallow flared in his throat.

"So, you're probably wondering why..." he started tentatively.

"Nope." Peter cut him off uncompromisingly.

"Well, you must be curious as to..."

"Nope," Peter repeated, his expression still inscrutable.

"You might think..."

"I don't think, I know."

"Oh."

Neal resumed his grooming of the bed linen, at a loss to know how to continue. He had no idea what Peter actually knew and what he had guessed, but he had learned not to underestimate the agent. It made it hard to decide what to tell him. A full confession went against a lifetime of experience, but he remembered the overwhelming relief when he had seen Peter in his room the night before and the accompanying sensation of safety, which had been swiftly chased down by the less familiar feeling of guilt.

The sudden knock on the door would have provided a welcome distraction at any other time, but any benefits of postponing the conversation were strongly outweighed by the possible danger associated with the visitor. Neal looked around frantically for inspiration, feeling ridiculously like a cheating wife trying to hide her lover from the returning husband. He had to keep Peter safe, but the patio was the only hiding place possible, and convincing the FBI agent to conceal himself there would prove a challenge even to his persuasive powers.

He looked across at Peter to see that his friend was watching him intently, waving a finger in a go-ahead motion.

"Who is it?" he called out, striving to keep his voice steady.

"Breakfast." He recognised the voice as belonging to a member of June's staff.

Peter opened the door and took the heavily laden tray from the maid. "Thanks, Celeste. This looks wonderful." He brought the food over and placed it on Neal's bed. "I was looking for something for us to eat this morning, and she offered to cook. Here." He handed one plate, its floral pattern nearly invisible under a fluffy omelet, to Neal and helped himself to the second and to the only cup of coffee.

Peter was famished after missing dinner the night before, and he tucked in to the savory meal with zest. He tried not to frown at the sight of Neal picking at his food. The dark circles under his friend's eyes, accentuating the pallor of his face, and the skin stretched thin over his cheekbones like wax paper were testaments to the strain he was under. With his hair tousled flatly against his scalp, very unlike his regular windswept style, Neal looked more like a teenager than the capable adult he was. The raw fear that had flickered in his eyes at the unexpected knock at the door hadn't escaped Peter's attention, and it had aroused his protective instincts.

He could tell himself he still hadn't decided on a course of action, but in reality, he was already committed to shielding Neal from the consequences of whatever new trouble he'd discovered. He pulled out his phone, lifting a finger as a caution for the other man to remain quiet.

"Hughes, it's Peter. Just to let you know I'll be late for work today, and might not be in at all...yeah, bad night...yes, quite possibly. Neal's really under the weather too...yes, Sir, hope to see you tomorrow."

There was a scowl already in place on his face to dampen Neal's delight, but his best quelling glare did nothing to forestall the inevitable Caffrey comment. "Peter, you prevaricated. How very me of you!"

It was a brave attempt at returning them to familiar footing, but the veneer of brashness was betrayed by a brittle quality in Neal's smile, and Peter's sarcastic response caught in his throat. The feigned relaxation wasn't fooling him. He was familiar with Neal's energy, his ingenuity and audacity. After witnessing the four-story dive into the unreliable embrace of an awning, it was impossible to doubt the young man's courage, so the hint of fear in expressive blue eyes bothered him.

"Have you ever been shot before?" he asked suddenly.

Watching carefully, Peter identified surprise, closely followed by a shadow he interpreted as alarm, before the shutters slammed down.

"No." Neal's answer was swift and dismissive, and Peter believed him, but he was also absolutely certain that his question had provoked a disturbing memory, something that would explain Neal's dislike of guns even if it didn't justify his current anxiety.

He knew it was pointless to pursue the issue at that time, so he merely continued to watch Neal quietly. Usually the conman hid behind his brash exterior, bright smiles, and dazzling appearance, but, right now, he was avoiding eye contact, taking advantage of his floppy bangs. As if reaching a decision, he squared his shoulders, although the action strangely made him seem more vulnerable, then he lifted his eyes to meet his friend's. There was a naked pain in their depths, and Peter's heart lurched in sympathetic reaction.

"Peter, you've been more than patient, but I know I owe you an explanation."

"Why don't you start with the Janssen diamonds?" Peter suggested evenly.

Neal's mouth parted in surprise, and he was silent for a full five seconds before bursting out in indignation. "What, you're like a Jedi Knight detecting a disturbance in the force any time I...I do something..."

"Illegal," Peter supplied helpfully. He liked Neal thinking he was somehow omniscient and went to great efforts to keep that reputation, knowing that it helped keep the young man in line.

"There is no way you could know that I..."

"I caught you on videotape," Peter stated bluntly.

He almost regretted that directness as what little colour Neal had regained drained perceptibly from his face. "Does the department...is there a warrant?"

Peter almost confessed to his little deception, but the mentor in him couldn't resist the opportunity for a salutary lesson. "Do you have any idea what the sentence is for such a crime? Do you know how old you would be before you saw the light of day again as a free man? Of course, you could go on the run for the rest of your life."

Peter was sorry for that small cruelty, whatever the good intentions behind it, as Neal slumped back in the pillows, eyes shut, radiating defeat and misery.

"Neal..." he began, but he was quickly interrupted, as his friend leaned forward again, wincing slightly at the movement.

"Peter, I swear it's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you stole the Janssen diamonds." Peter couldn't resist that jibe.

"Okay, I admit, it is what it looks like. I did steal them. But you have to understand; I wouldn't let you down like that. I know what you've put on the line for me, and I wouldn't betray that. I wouldn't betray you, not without a damn good reason."

Peter knew how good Neal was as a conman, and he was always a little afraid of his own propensity to trust the young man. However, even if he hadn't already figured it out for himself, he would have believed Neal now. This was Caffrey splayed open emotionally, vulnerable and desperate like he'd only seen him once before.

He reached over and gripped Neal's leg reassuringly. "I believe you and, for the record, no one else recognised you from the video, not even El."

The tension bled slowly from Neal's frame, and he relaxed back into the pillows. Recognising the fact that the young conman needed some time to compose himself, Peter went to fetch him some cold water from the fridge. "Do you need anything else?"

"Cup of coffee?" Neal asked hopefully.

"I'm pretty sure that's in the FBI handbook of things not to drink after you've been shot."

Neal scowled at him disbelievingly, but Peter just shrugged in apology. He hadn't got a clue what was undesirable for injured people, but he was basing his refusal on El's list of prohibited food when _he_ was sick.

He sat down again and regarded Neal thoughtfully.

Neal's mask of confidence and nonchalance had been stripped away, and Peter could see confusion, frustration and raw fear.

"Neal, I want to help, but to do that I need full disclosure. What's going on? Is this about the music box, about Kate?"

"I'll tell you everything I know," Neal promised readily, "But it's not that much; there's quite a bit of guesswork involved. First and foremost, I think we've made a mistake; we got too obsessed with the music box. It's a big part of it, but it's not everything. It didn't start with the music box, remember?"

It took Peter a moment to follow the allusion. "The first time we met Fowler? The pink diamond?"

"We didn't have enough direct evidence to link it to Fowler, and somehow it got lost in the general pattern of corruption that followed."

"So it was Fowler?"

"No." Neal's voice died on the negation, but as Peter made no attempt to interject, it picked up again, sounding snagged, roughened as if he'd been swallowing sand.

"I thought it was you at the door, you know, that you'd arrived early for the chess game. But instead, it was a man with an OPR badge and a gun."

As Peter sucked in a breath to speak, Neal quickly resumed. "He didn't threaten me at first. He said he had a proposition for me, one that offered great financial benefits. I only listened because I thought I could learn something, you know, like you with Judge Clark. I would never willingly work for OPR."

Peter nodded his acceptance of that statement. "Go on."

"He said that since Tulane was in jail, they needed a new second-story man, and I had the right skills for the post. They had a job all lined up, and I would get the same deal as Tulane - twenty percent right off the top, and if things worked out, they would throw in a permanent release from the tracker. When I pointed out the anklet would make it really hard to avoid detection while committing crimes, he reminded me that they'd had no difficulty altering the data last time. I said thanks for the offer, it was interesting, and I'd think about it. I was very diplomatic," he added as an afterthought.

A muffled snort indicated Peter's opinion of that optimistic announcement. "Diplomacy is thinking twice before saying nothing," he quoted. "Somehow I doubt you were that diplomatic."

"Yeah, well, that's when he dropped the pretense that I had any choice in the matter." The sudden rigidity around Neal's eyes and the hardening of his mouth clued Peter in to the severity of the recounting to come. He was very aware how much worse this scenario could have played out. Instead of identifying Neal from the brief glimpse on the videotape, he could have been called in to identify a burglar shot dead by the Janssen guards.

He pushed aside the sharp fear that he could have lost his friend until only the FBI agent, cold and deadly, remained. "Why the hell didn't you come to me? You shouldn't have gone through with it. I would have protected you from him. It was a dumb move. What if they were just setting you up as a fall guy?"

Neal's temper reared up to meet his. "That occurred to me, but I told you I didn't have a choice. He didn't leave me alone until I broke into the building."

Peter had the feeling that if Neal hadn't been trapped under the bedclothes with a broken rib, the door would have slammed shut behind him by now.

A sudden realisation hit him as Neal's words percolated through his mind.

"He was with you when I came to the door, wasn't he?" Peter was on his feet, standing up so fast his chair fell over, needing to move, needing to discharge some of the furious energy coursing through him. "He was in the apartment." The threat had been right there and he'd been oblivious. "Why didn't you give me some kind of signal? We work well together, and I would have picked up on..."

He paused, heart kicking in his chest like a gut-shot deer, trying to remember the details of that evening. "Did I miss it? Oh, God, I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry..."

Neal didn't allow that train of guilt to progress any further. "Peter, stop! I didn't give you any signal. I did my best to make you go away. It wasn't your fault."

Peter took in the sharp, almost paralysed, tension that gripped his friend, and amidst the rapid thudding of his beating heart, it all made sense. He picked the chair up and sat back down, his knuckles clenched white over the arms. "He threatened me, didn't he?"

He took the slight inclination of Neal's head as an affirmative and nodded, more to himself than Neal. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he started mentally mapping the obstacle course of the conversation they needed to have.

To his surprise, Neal broke the silence. "He wasn't alone. He got a telephone call to tell him you were on your way up, so he had to have an accomplice outside. I couldn't take the chance. Then he..." The words strangled off hoarsely.

Peter looked up to find his lips were pressed together, as if to keep himself from spilling any more secrets, yet as he searched the bright blue gaze, he could see all Neal's emotions, usually so tightly bound, broadcasting a wordless plea for help.

Despite his hatred for emotional pyrotechnics, Peter couldn't resist that entreaty. He channeled his inner Elizabeth to find the words to help his friend disgorge the mass of pent up stress that was choking him.

He leaned forward confidingly. "I know you're used to working with little or no back up, and to playing your cards close to your chest. But you've got a partner now. You not only can talk to me, you need to. I have to know everything that's going on, or it endangers both of us."

Neal's pinched look got even tighter, and for a moment the only part of him that moved was the pulse leaping in his throat. Peter waited patiently, schooling his features into neutral expectancy.

"He said..." Neal's voice was little more than a shaky whisper. He cleared his throat and started again, louder this time, but with a rasp as if he'd swallowed broken glass. "He said that Kate was dead, but that they had plenty of explosives left, and if I didn't want to lose someone else I lo...someone else I cared about, I'd follow his directions to the letter."

There was desperation and the hopelessness of loss revealed in Neal's expression which was painfully exposed, stripped bare of defenses as this barely healed wound was ripped open.

Peter struggled to find a verbal styptic for that emotional wound, but the assurances he wanted to offer sounded hollow in his own mind. He was relieved when Neal continued without prompting.

"June agreed to bring forward the date of her visit to her daughter. I don't know if they're aware of Mozz's existence, but I sent him a prearranged coded message that'll send him to ground."

Peter somehow found a smile for that. "That's going to feed into his paranoia."

"He would say that paranoia is just knowing all the facts. Besides, just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you." Neal could find nothing amusing in the situation. "So with them safe, that leaves..."

There was a pause as both men silently filled in the missing pronoun. Then Neal reached out, grasping Peter's wrist in much the same way he'd done the previous night. "Peter, you have to take Elizabeth and go on another vacation. You have to get out of town. Please!"

The full force of that desperate appeal shook Peter to his marrow. But there was only one response he could give. "I can't do that," he said helplessly. "You know I can't."

His refusal caused Neal to withdraw, and Peter sought for something to soften the blow. "Look, I'm an FBI agent, they're not going to go after me. An investigation into that would cause too much trouble."

"Bullshit!" Neal rarely resorted to crude language, so the imprecation revealed the depth of his frustration. "You're exactly who they're going to go after. I'm no threat to them, they see me as a tool. You're the only person who could thwart their plans. Last time, they took you out of the play by going after Elizabeth. I don't think this guy has Fowler's finesse. He's just going to remove you altogether if you interfere."

The words were tumbling over themselves in the need to convince. "He said you wouldn't see it coming. You'd just turn the key in your car one day or open your front door and..." Hands brought up to mime an explosion, fell limply back on the bedcovers instead. The violence of orange flames reflected in his eyes, his body shuddered as if shaken by the concussion of the blast as past horror and future fear melded into an encompassing nightmare.

"I can't do this again." It was a bare whisper, not intended for anyone else's ears.

Without hesitation, Peter moved over from the chair to sit on the bed, draping his arm over bowed shoulders. Over the last two months, he'd become the world's expert at recognising the symptoms of PTSD in Neal Caffrey. It wasn't usually easy; Neal refused to express his grief, remaining as polished and smooth as ever, but Peter always caught the almost imperceptible signs; fingers clasped to prevent shaking, the unfocused gaze. He'd also discovered that a casually placed hand helped ground the young man and pull him back from the hell he was reliving.

The specifics of that threat ran cold fingers of dread down Peter's spine. He himself had not escaped the explosion emotionally unscathed. He had suffered many nightmares, mostly concerning the vagaries of timing - if he'd been a few minutes later showing up, or Neal hadn't turned around when he did. Neal had avoided death by mere seconds, and the narrowness of that margin provided adequate fodder for sleepless nights even now. Their recent experiences with the bomb made such a danger all too real and terrifying, but he couldn't afford to dwell on the danger right now.

When he felt tense shoulders start to relax under the warmth of his arm, Peter moved away with a final comforting squeeze. "You need some more painkillers?" He tried to find a neutral topic to defuse any tension and discomfort his friend might be feeling. At the nod of assent, he moved across to the kitchen area and fussed around with the medicine bottle.

Neal appreciated the space. Peter had caught him with his carefully constructed guard not just down, but broken into pieces. He preferred to lick his wounds in private, not expose his weaknesses, and part of him wanted to take the words back, shake off the clinging aura of vulnerability.

But the pain of Kate's death still lingered malignantly under the veneer of normality, waiting for a chance to strike, and the thought of losing Peter the same way sent panic gnawing at him like some feral animal had taken up housing in his guts. Drawing in a shuddery breath, he blanked his mind, forcing all of those images into a tiny box and locking them down tight.

He accepted the white pills Peter placed in his hand and the accompanying glass of milk with a resigned grimace.

Peter watched him chase them down. "Can I get you anything else? A damp cloth for that milk mustache?"

"Are you going to mop my fevered brow with it?" the conman smirked, although it was an obvious strain.

Peter appreciated the effort. "If you've become delusional, maybe I should take you to the hospital."

"Nah, I'm good." He wiped his mouth inelegantly with his forearm.

Peter reseated himself, allowing the humour to fade in favour of a return to business. "Neal, you keep talking about 'they'. Do you have a clear idea who 'they' are?"

"I've formed a theory from the evidence we have," Neal offered tentatively.

"Let's hear it." It was more an order than an invitation.

"I hate to cast aspersions on your beloved FBI, but I'd say we have a group of rogue FBI agents who're using the knowledge gained from their positions to make a lot of money."

Peter frowned. "I'd say OPR is more the bastard stepchild of the FBI. They are not exactly part of the family. What makes you think it's a group, why not two corrupt individuals?"

"One corrupt agent is an opportunist, two from the same department are an infection of epidemic proportion. Besides, we also know there was someone pulling Fowler's strings. He told me the secret of the music box was beyond his paygrade. Maybe his boss is in on it too." Neal shifted restlessly. There was a good chance that this was the shadowy figure who had ordered Kate's death.

"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" Peter hated the thought of corruption at such high levels, but it made sense. "You know, that makes me think. Why are they risking so much for this money?"

Neal stared at him quizzically, "Peter, usually money is seen as something of an end in itself."

"But not always." Peter countered. "You told me once it wasn't about the money."

"You can't hold that against me," the conman protested. "I was high."

"In vino veritas." Peter decided he was spending too much time with Mozz, the little man's annoying habit of having a quotation for every circumstance was rubbing off on him.

"There was no wine involved," Neal pointed out a trifle sulkily. "A good Barolo would have made the experience more bearable."

Peter nearly suggested that he needed to get Neal high more often, but encouraging delinquency went against the FBI code. However, if the circumstances hadn't been so dire, he would have enjoyed the unguarded, talkative, musical version of Neal Caffrey that had appeared under the influence.

"So if not mere acquisitiveness, what are you suggesting?"

Peter shrugged. "More venturing a guess than suggesting, but maybe it's a way of funding illegal operations."

"A kind of FBI-sponsored Iran-Contra deal?"

"Something of the sort. There must be dubious projects, like Mentor, that wouldn't get official approval, but can proceed with an illicit source of income."

Neal nodded thoughtfully, obviously testing the theory against his recent experiences. "It's plausible," he conceded. "But ultimately, does it matter?"

"Yeah, it could very well affect how they react to an investigation on our part. If they're just in it for the money, they're more likely to cut and run with the profits. However, if they're motivated by ideological reasons, it could make them very dangerous."

"They're dangerous whatever their motivations are. We know they've killed."

The tightness of his voice alerted Peter to his error, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment of both the tactlessness of his comment and the justice of Neal's rebuke.

"They're dangerous," he confirmed. "So, who is this new OPR agent?"

There was silence, and a closer glance showed him a defiant set to Neal's jaw despite the fear hovering just behind his eyes. "If I tell you, you'll run his record, start an inquiry, and they'll know you're onto him."

Peter suppressed his immediate impulse to bulldoze over this statement, sensing the real distress behind the refusal. He was a self-proclaimed failure at comfort, but this was within the sphere of his professional experience, and words, normally the bane of his relationships, flowed smoothly from him.

"You know, since we started working together, I've found it ironic just how good an FBI agent you would have made. Your investigative skills are a match for anyone's in the department, but perhaps more importantly, you're naturally protective of civilians caught up in our cases, like Tara or Taryn. Of course," he paused contemplatively, "it would help if I didn't have to worry about the possibility that the objects we retrieve have been replaced by a Neal Caffrey special."

Neal perked up under the praise. "Think of it as community service on my part. An original Caffrey could be worth something one day."

Peter decided to ignore the comment in favour of sticking to his original point, though he filed it away for later consideration. "Shut up and pay attention. This isn't something I'm going to say more than once. I couldn't ask for a better partner, but you still need to work on the concept a bit. You're trying to protect me, I get it, I even appreciate it, but it has to work both ways. I can't watch your back if I don't know who I'm watching for. I can't even protect myself when any random stranger could be the person planning to take me out."

Although Neal didn't move, and his gaze was unreadable, Peter could sense the exact moment of capitulation when his resolution collapsed, an almost imperceptible deflation that left Peter feeling like he'd kicked a puppy.

"Martin Windlow, although he also had ID in his wallet that said he was Max Condron." Neal's statement was flat, reluctance palpable in each word.

"You picked his pocket?" As so often with Neal's antics, Peter's immediate response was inappropriate amusement followed by mild dismay and resignation. "Of course you picked his pocket."

"I put it back afterwards," Neal offered meekly.

Peter's mouth quirked in a slight smile at the thought that if Satchmo looked at him like that, he'd smack his nose with a newspaper.

Neal's eyelids drifted shut, the dark eyelashes contrasting dramatically with the pallor of his cheeks, and Peter was forcibly reminded that his young friend had been shot not twelve hours before.

"You need to get some rest," he stated abruptly. "Let me just check your..." The hand he waved vaguely at Neal's side, suggesting medical attention.

"Florence Returns, the Sequel." The humour was a cover for discomfort and slight trepidation. "What exactly are you checking for?"

"You know, just to make sure bits aren't dropping off you." It wasn't exactly reassuring.

"It's a bullet wound, Peter, not leprosy."

Peter paused his ministrations with a mock thoughtful look. "So that's where I made my mistake in my first aid merit badge."

A weak huff of a laugh greeted this fabrication. "So, is everything still in place?" Neal started to twist slightly in an effort to assess the injury himself, but a quick tap on the chin forced him to desist before his rib could protest more vehemently than it already did.

The injury looked inflamed and painful, but there were no red streaks or anything to suggest it wouldn't heal properly, so Peter rewrapped it carefully. "You'll feel better if you get some more sleep," he suggested.

With a drowsy nod of agreement, Neal seemed about to settle when his eyes shot open, and he jolted upright, the abrupt movement surprising a wince from him.

"I can't yet. We have to talk about what happened last night."

"Can't it wait?" It was obvious the young man was on the point of crashing hard, and Peter needed time to think about the revelations of the day, to plan a strategy.

No it can't. It..." Neal seemed to search for a satisfactory euphemism. "It complicates things."

"Terrific!" Peter threw up his hands. "Because that's what we really need right now. Okay, what happened last night?"

"Windlow came back." The pronouncement was stark, yet weighted.

The tight heat of anger pulsed in Peter's gut. "Was he the one who shot you?" He had punched and shot Fowler for threatening people he cared about, now he yearned to test the theory that all the rogue OPR agents wore bullet-proof vests.

'No, he wasn't the one." Neal rubbed a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I thought the Janssen heist was it, that they'd leave me alone after that. But he told me that I was a pawn, their pawn, and I'd do what they told me."

He tried to play it off lightly, but Peter could tell it rankled. Rice's demeaning dismissal of him as a tool in her belt had engendered a similar response. For a man of Neal's intelligence and independence, to be treated as a puppet, an object to be manipulated for the gain of others, must be galling beyond measure.

"You thought about running," Peter realised in a moment of insight.

"Yeah, I thought about it." The acknowledgment lacked defensiveness, and it also lacked the obvious corollary, 'but I didn't.'

Peter wanted to press him further, to force the verbalisation of the reasons behind that decision to stay. He knew it lay in that complicated algorithm of friendship and trust that existed between them, and he wanted to hear it expressed, to drag it into the light of day, but forcing that confession would be scant repayment for the loyalty it represented, so instead he offered, "I'm glad you didn't. I've had enough of playing 'Where's Waldo' with you!"

There was gratitude for the consideration in the smile Neal threw him. "Those were the days," he sighed reminiscently. "Admit it, Peter, it was fun."

Since to deny it would mean a lie, Peter chose discretion as the better part of valor. "Let's skip the retrospection party and concentrate on current complications. What did this Windlow want with you?"

"He wanted me as the front man to fence the diamonds to the Russian mob," Neal stated bluntly.

"The Russian mob? Oh, this just gets better and better!" There were only so many times a man could throw his arms into the air without feeling like a windmill.

Neal blinked at him innocently.

Peter had no difficulty interpreting that ingenuous expression. "Oh, my mistake. That's just the beginning isn't it? There's more good news to come."

"Windlow drove me out to Ivan Shorovosky's house on the Sound."

"So, not just any Russian mobster. You chose the elite. The man voted most likely to decapitate anyone looking at him sideways. Tell me you didn't look at him sideways."

Neal obliged. "I looked at him straight in the eye if that helps. However, I may also have stolen something from him."

Peter decided he should probably sit on his hands. Not only would it prevent him from gesturing wildly, it might prevent him from strangling the reckless young man before the Russian mob came to kill him. "You're kidding me."

"It wasn't my idea," Neal protested virtuously.

"It's not an idea at all. It's...it's suicidal ideation. So it was Windlow's...suggestion?"

"Yeah, and he was very persuasive."

Peter decided not to pursue that ominous statement. He didn't want the details of that persuasion. "This is why they shot at you?"

Neal hesitated, then said carefully, "Yes, it's entirely possible that is why they shot at me."

Peter studied him, head cocked slightly on one side. He recognised the evasion. "Neal, did you give the nice men with guns another reason to shoot you?"

"I may have also picked his pocket."

"Shorovosky's?" Peter choked, caught between laughter and truly appalled horror. It took him a few minutes to catch his breath enough to continue. "What you were you thinking? Have you no impulse control? You can't keep your hands out of other people's pockets literally to save your life!"

Neal looked more amused than contrite at Peter's sputtering. "I'd just stolen a valuable artifact from the most feared man in the city. I didn't have much to lose. What's he going to do - kill me twice?"

"Are you trying to tell me there was actually method behind your madness?"

"If I have something that could actually lead to taking Shorovosky down, couldn't that actually be seen as an act of self-preservation?"

"You have something that could bring down Shorovosky?" Bearing in mind it was tainted evidence, Peter was intrigued against his will.

"Judging from the intensity of the conversation he was having with the man who gave it to him, I would say it was important anyway. It's in my jacket." He gestured to the garment which Peter had so carefully peeled off him the previous night, and which was still lying discarded on the floor.

It was stiff in places with encrusted blood, and the envelope Peter drew from an inside pocket had two small smears marring the pristine whiteness of its cover.

"Now you can't ever say I've never given you a present." He watched Peter tear open the envelope and extract two pieces of paper from inside, perusing both briefly front and back. "Well, what does it say?" he asked with some trepidation.

"It's encrypted,"

"Oh," Neal's voice was heavy with disappointment.

"No, it's probably a good thing. No one bothers to encrypt their laundry list."

"Well, there was one time..." Neal trailed off thoughtfully.

"I'll amend that. Nobody sane would think of encrypting their laundry list."

Neal smirked at that, but made no effort to continue the teasing, a definite sign of his flagging energy. "Shorovosky paid me for the diamonds and I thought I'd made it out of there with the money and the matryoshka, but just before I'd made it back to the gate, they started firing so I guess they found something missing. I had to make an impromptu dive over the wall. I passed the cash and the artifact to Windlow who drove me back here." He started to shrug, but aborted the maneuver with a grimace. "So, that's it."

"So, let me summarize. We need to expose the corruption in OPR, shutting down the operations and hopefully exposing whoever is at its head." Peter ticked the objectives off on his fingers. "We need to take down the Russian mob, or at least the New York branch of it, preferably while preventing them from assassinating you." He paused as a thought struck him. "Do they know who you are?"

There was another abortive shrug. "I didn't introduce myself, if that's what you mean. But it's the Russian mob. If they want to find things out, they usually do, so I would guess I won't remain incognito."

Peter looked at his fingers contemplatively. "We should cure world hunger while we're at it."

"Leap tall building in a single bound," Neal contributed with a yawn.

"Get some rest while you can." The advice seemed unnecessary as Neal's eyes slid shut involuntarily. However, as Peter moved toward the door, pulling out his phone, the young man suddenly jackknifed upright once again, eyes wide with panic and the pain of the sudden movement.

"Where are you going?"

With the Russian mob gunning for him, it wasn't surprising that Neal didn't want to be left unprotected, and Peter hastened to reassure him. "I'm not going far. I need to arrange somewhere safer for you. I also need to talk to El. She has an event this evening, but as soon as that's done, I want her out of town. She's not going to like it, but hopefully she'll understand."

"Don't use your car. Promise me. Promise you won't even go near it."

After all this time, Neal still had the capacity to surprise him. With a virtual death sentence hanging over him, his main concern was for Peter's safety. A light flush of pride warmed his cheeks, and he didn't want to analyze whether it was pride in his friend's selflessness or at the position he himself occupied in the young man's life.

"No car," he vowed solemnly, hoping to erase the look of desperation that darkened his friend's eyes. He thought he'd succeeded, but as he made a tentative move towards the door, Neal started to throw off the bedclothes.

"I think I should come with you."

Peter backtracked hastily. "Whoa there, Trigger. What do you think you're doing?"

"You're the one who said it. I'm your partner. I need to have your back, and I can't do that lying in bed."

Neal appeared to be unaware of his own limitations, so Peter felt compelled to point them out as gently as possible. "I appreciate the sentiment, but if somebody attacked me at the moment, the most you could do is collapse on top of them. We have little time, but you need to spend it building up your strength."

Neal stared at him mutinously until his friend lowered himself back into the chair. The throbbing in his side was clouded by the welcome haze of codeine, and without that constant stimulus, it was getting harder to stay awake.

He wasn't conscious of falling asleep, but there was clearly a chronological gap in his awareness because when he next looked, the chair beside him was empty once more, but the room was now occupied by a large, angry man shouting and waving a gun as he advanced toward him.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note. It was nice to hear that so many of you share my love for Peter and Neal in a room talking. Now the action recommences!

Thanks again to all those who take the time to review.

Scapegoat Ch 5

The disorientation of the rude awakening faded quicker than the adrenaline rush of being charged by a gun-wielding berserker. The flood of endorphins helped mute the pain in his side as he scrambled out of the opposite side of the bed, automatically putting its flimsy protection between him and the maniac whom he now recognised as Windlow. The normally imposing and self-contained OPR agent was disheveled and agitated.

"What the hell did you do, Caffrey, you stupid bastard?" was the first coherent thing Neal managed to catch from the abusive epithets being flung in his direction.

"What are you talking about?" Neal's squawk of injured bewilderment slowed Windlow's approach.

"The Russians - they're going crazy. It's like they're mobilizing for war." The OPR agent was still holding his gun, waving it around as if he'd forgotten it was in his hand, not training it specifically on Neal whose hands were half-raised, partly in appeasement and partly to demonstrate his defenselessness. Yet, despite the danger, the spice of the con danced in his veins, and he allowed himself to sink into its familiar seductive embrace, lies assuming the guise of truth in its arms.

"I did what you said." Indignation tinged with apprehension colored his words. "I stole the matroyoshka. You know I did; I gave it to you. What did you think their response would be - that they'd pat me on the back and offer me a shot of vodka? Look, you got me into this situation, you've got to help me now. You said you could get me out of this anklet. I did what you wanted. Now get me away from here and set me up with a new identity or something."

The burly agent still looked suspicious, but the aggression in his stance was fading as indecision grew. "You must have done something. Those old dolls weren't worth this much aggravation. Did you switch the diamonds, give them something fake?"

"Of course not." Neal's scorn was not faked. "How am I supposed to have accomplished that? I gave the diamonds to you as soon as I was out of the Janssen building and only got them back before I made the exchange. How was I supposed to manufacture anything in that time frame? I followed your instructions to the letter. I've done everything you've asked, so either help me or leave me alone."

It was a convincing performance, especially considering that Neal was distracted by concerns over Peter's whereabouts. He had no idea how long Peter had been gone or even if he'd left the building. The chilling possibility existed that Windlow had already taken him out of the picture, and he was lying nearby, injured or worse. But Neal had faith that his partner would not be so easily overpowered. He would probably return to the room, and Neal had to make sure that his friend was alert to the situation before he entered. Windlow still had his gun drawn, so Peter would be under an immediate disadvantage.

Windlow didn't look mollified, but he did appear more confused than homicidal. "Get dressed," he ordered, then retreated across the room, pulling out his phone.

Neal obeyed more out of dislike for entertaining company, especially armed company, in his underwear than from any desire to follow directions. He couldn't hear the whole conversation behind him, but it was clear that the agent was reporting Neal's apparent ignorance and awaiting instructions.

Even seated, Neal found it impossible to put on his pants without bending, and the slightest pressure on his side was agonizing. He became lightheaded in his efforts to minimize the impact of his breathing, but he kept focused on his goal to contact Peter. Windlow was distracted by his conversation, making it easy for Neal to palm his own cellphone and slip it into his pocket. He stroked his thumb indecisively over the buttons before deciding that the benefits outweighed the risks and pushing 1 on his speed dial. He couldn't tell whether the call had gone through, but hopefully Peter would be alerted to his predicament and not walk blindly into an ambush.

Changing his clothes was slow, due not only to the gingerly movements on his part but also to deliberate stalling. The process wasn't complete when the rogue agent strode back to the bedside. His eyes fell on a strip of bandage visible at Neal's waist.

"So you didn't escape completely unhurt last night," he commented.

Neal wasn't sure what response would best suit his purposes, so went with a modified version of the truth while keeping information to a minimum. "It's nothing much."

Windlow nodded, showing little interest. "Hurry up. We've got to get going."

Going anywhere with the OPR man seemed like a monumentally bad idea for innumerable reasons. Yet, given his former comments about wanting help escaping the Russian mafia, baulking would be suspicious. He decided to take a page from Mozz's little red book of paranoia.

"Why, where are we going? Oh my God, you're going to hand me over to them, aren't you? I'm just a convenient scapegoat to get the Russians off your back." His voice rose in panic, and he backed away, hands upraised, until brought up short by the wardrobe behind him.

Neal had intended it as a reason to resist, to play for more time, but even as he spoke it suddenly sounded plausible to him. His usefulness to this rogue cell was almost certainly at an end, and he'd witnessed first hand how they liked to tie up loose ends.

Windlow had been tapping his gun impatiently against his leg, but now he leveled it, pointing at Neal's head. "You're coming with me, now."

Neal swallowed, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "I'd rather take my chances here. Shooting a gun in this neighborhood will bring in the police quickly, and trying to drag my unconscious or dead body out would rank high on the list of suspicious activities. Look, you go your way and I'll go mine. I just want to get out of the country."

The gun didn't waver, but the rogue agent eyed him assessingly for a long moment before he pulled a small, rectangular device out of his pocket. "Do you know what this is?"

There was no blinking red light or large ACME push-me button, but intuition, if not technical knowledge, told Neal exactly what to expect from the contraption. He was still stalling even as panic wormed its slimy way up his throat. He flashed a plastic smile. "I have no idea. You know technology is so not my thing. Now, show me a painting and I could tell you the artist or at least narrow down its origins to the nearest decade, explain the influences, style and if..."

"It's a detonator." The agent cut off his rambling discursion. "Agent Burke left his car unattended all night. Not the smartest move under the circumstances."

At Neal's nonchalant shrug, Windlow continued, "I'm reliably informed that Special Agent Burke means something to you."

Neal noticed his hands were shaking and, since they were too heavy to hold up anymore, he let them drop leadenly, sagging back heavily against the wooden support behind him. "Not that you'd notice," he said tiredly. "He caught me and put me in jail. That sort of thing tends to sour a relationship."

"He also got you out, not once but twice. That second time, he threw his whole career behind it."

"I solve cases for him. I'm a tool in his belt, nothing more." Fuzzy black spots impeded Neal's view of the gun. The last time he'd found it this hard to draw in a breath, there'd been no oxygen in the room. His mind was spinning, thoughts cascading in on each other. Peter had promised him he wouldn't drive. He was sure he hadn't imagined that conversation. He wouldn't break his word. Peter was dependable like that. But what if he'd just been humoring the crazy man, or what if an emergency had come up necessitating fast transport?

"So you're telling me you wouldn't mind if I ..." Windlow's finger hovered threateningly over a switch.

"NO! Don't. I'll come with you." His bluff had been called, and the consequences of further intransigence were too horrific to contemplate. He couldn't risk Peter's life. He stumbled forward as wobbly-legged and uncoordinated as a new-born colt, and as he neared the OPR agent, Windlow grabbed his jacket, jerking the younger man toward him. Neal couldn't prevent a cry as the movement jolted his broken rib, an icy-hot poker slicing his side.

Windlow didn't pause but continued manhandling Neal to the door. To free up the hand that now twisted in Neal's jacket, the agent had dropped the detonator back in his pocket. The new proximity allowed Neal to relieve him of it. There was little safeguard if it remained on his person, so he neatly deposited it on a shelf just before he was shoved out the door. The gun however, was still tightly clenched in Windlow's hand, so Neal couldn't dispose of that so readily.

The stairs proved to be a hazard in Neal's unsteady state, and, for the first time, Windlow's grip on him was a benefit rather than a painful restraint. Neal's fingers slid down the polished wooden grain of the banister, trying to keep their descent at a leisurely pace to spare his side the constant jarring, but Windlow kept pushing him forward impatiently. They were more than half-way down when the front door was flung open and in strode Peter, talking animatedly on his phone. There was a split second when everybody froze - surprise, recognition and indecision tumbling like dominoes before each man simultaneously burst into action. Peter dropped his phone, grabbing smoothly for his weapon. Neal threw himself toward Windlow's gun, hoping to disarm him, knowing that Peter would hesitate to fire on a fellow officer, but that the OPR agent would have no such compunctions. Yet, his movement lacked the fluid speed and dexterity that had allowed him to escape unscathed from so many perilous situations, and he literally played into the rogue agent's hands as the man reinforced his hold to pull him closer and use him as a shield. One meaty hand wrapped around his neck while the cold circle of a gun barrel pressed against the tender skin of his temple.

"Let him go, Condron! No one needs to get hurt." Peter's voice was commanding - professional tones designed to calm the situation while still containing a definite threat.

Neal didn't think he'd ever appreciated Peter's square-jawed, solid presence more. He wasn't sure when his personal nemesis had become his personal saviour, but nowadays it seemed that whenever he tried to extricate himself from the frying pan, Peter was there to prevent a fall into the fire.

Despite the fact that the gun was pointed at his own head, Neal was more worried about Peter's vulnerable position, and fear for his friend thrummed through his veins like an electric current, delivering a jolt to each nerve ending, leaving him twitching with the need to act.

Peter's eyes flashed across to Neal's, and they met with a shock of connection. They held concern, a promise, and an unmistakable warning. _Wait, don't do anything stupid_.

Neal allowed himself to relax, trusting his partner completely. His fingers still hooked over the arm that seemed eager to throttle him, trying to gain enough space to breathe. Despite the discomfort, he allowed his weight to sag slightly, intent on wearing down the muscles that restrained him. He would wait for his cue, knowing exactly the role that his friend wanted him to play. Peter would try to settle the matter without bloodshed, but if he believed Neal's life was in imminent danger, he would take the shot. It was Neal's job to be ready for a signal and react instantly, allowing all of his weight to fall on that hopefully tired arm, giving Peter a clear shot. Of course, the weakness in that plan was that he needed to be conscious to recognise the warning when it came and, if the black spots dancing merrily in front of his vision were any indication, that was becoming increasingly doubtful.

"Back off, Burke. This is OPR business." The agent, obviously Condron was his correct name, was attempting to assert his own authority.

Peter raised a quizzical eyebrow. "OPR business is now kidnapping and attempted murder? Can I get that in writing?"

"There is no kidnapping here. Caffrey is leaving with me of his own free will."

The eyebrow now crooked in disbelief. "I think I need to hear that from him. Are you leaving willingly, Neal?"

Neal tried to offer a strong denial, but the only sound that escaped his restricted airway was a strangled groan which brought both eyebrows down in a worried scowl. "You're digging a hole deeper for yourself, Condron. Just let him go."

"No, you're getting involved in something that's none of your business. I'm not kidnapping Caffrey. He's a witness who has been targeted by the Russian mob, and I'm trying to save his life. For all I know, you're a hitman working for them."

"Is that why you've so strategically placed his body between yourself and my gun? I think you need to brush up on your bodyguarding techniques." However, after another worried glance at Neal, Peter's attitude became more conciliatory. "Okay, it sounds like both of us have the same goal in mind - my CI's well-being."

He relaxed his stance, taking his left hand off the gun and pointing the weapon harmlessly at the ceiling with his right. "Come on down, and let's discuss this somewhere more comfortable." It must have occurred to Peter that if the OPR agent gave Neal a hearty shove, Peter would have to choose between stepping aside smartly to take the shot and allowing Neal to break his neck or catching his partner, leaving them both vulnerable. Luckily, Condron seemed to prefer Neal as a shield rather than as a projectile.

Peter backed away slightly, allowing them room to complete their descent. However, he kept their exit carefully blocked off. Neal cooperated in the uncomfortable maneuvering, partly because he saw the tactical advantage, but mostly because he lacked the energy to do otherwise.

Windlow, or Condron, relaxed his grip slightly as they reached terra firma, but he kept moving, backing deeper into the house, ostensibly to put more room between them and Peter. "This is going to cost you your career, Burke," he growled.

"Yeah, that's what Garrett Fowler said. How's his pension coming along?" Peter kept the distance between them short.

"You know, Burke, maybe I haven't given you the right incentive. In my pocket I have a detonator and, with one push of a bottom, I blow up your wife's car." Neal had been listening to the sound of air whistling in and out of his lungs, but at that threat, he tried to interject a comment on the actual whereabouts of that device. Sensing at least part of his intent, the massive arm tightened once again on his throat so little sound came out.

Peter's grim expression deepened into a lethal glare. "Next time, I suggest you do your homework before trying to bluff. We only have one car in our family. Now listen carefully because this is the best deal you're going to get today. You let Caffrey go, and I'll let you walk out of here."

Condron wasn't going to do it. Neal knew that as surely as if the words had been whispered telepathically into his brain. More likely it was the minute shift of muscles that offered telltale signs of the man's intentions. The OPR agent wasn't going to shoot Neal, he couldn't afford to lose his hostage, but it would only take a split second to redirect his weapon toward Peter, who had no cover and couldn't shoot back without endangering his friend. Neal could see it all in horrific clarity. He tried to shout out a warning, but the words were unintelligible.

"Don't try it." Peter's gun was again leveled.

"_Take the shot, Butch,_" That's what it sounded like in Neal's head, but it emerged as a garbled, "tkkugsshh," so Neal tried use his expression to convey his willingness for Peter to shoot. He used his waning strength to struggle, more to spoil Condron's aim or at least to propel a warning past the pressure on his throat. As the OPR agent was forced to use both hands to restrain his captive, Peter rushed forward, but he stopped as Condron slammed the butt of his gun into the side of Neal's face before replacing the barrel.

Peter knew in theory that he could take the shot. Neal was too slight to be a completely effective shield for the burly man, but it would have to be a kill shot to the head and that could only ever be a last resort. The threat to El had enraged him, but the knowledge that it was baseless removed the immediate homicidal urge. The greatest deterrent to shooting was Neal's proximity to the target. The bullet would pass mere inches above his head, and the narrowness of that margin of error dried the inside of his mouth to a parched husk and set a slight tremor in his hand that made the prospect of shooting even more terrifying. His gun had never felt so heavy.

He knew he could only fire in the direst of necessity. Neal looked as if he were hanging onto consciousness by a mere thread. There was a blankness in those blue eyes that were still fixed trustingly on him. He fought for control of his emotions, realising he needed to defuse the situation. "I just want Caffrey. Nobody has to get hurt here."

Tension stretched in an almost invisible chord in the battle of wills between the two agents. It was broken as the kitchen door opened suddenly behind Peter, and out of the corner of his eye Peter recognised the maid from two nights ago. She uttered a little scream at the scenario in front of her, and he instinctively placed himself between the civilian and the threat, "Get back in the kitchen, now!"

_He got a telephone call to tell him you were on your way up, so he had to have an accomplice outside._ Peter had already started moving before his brain had put the clues together and before Neal's stifled shout of warning reached his ears, so the knife intended for his back sliced deeply down his arm instead. It didn't seem to hurt, there was just a sense of pressure and a sudden surge of nausea.

Peter tried to knock her away and bring his gun to bear, but he was off balance and suddenly clumsy. He was already falling awkwardly when the knife was planted solidly between his shoulder blades and completed the process. It didn't hurt either, but any surprise at that was lost in a burst of orange flame as he hit the floor. It faded to black and took him with it.


	6. Chapter 6

Scapegoat Chapter 6

Neal watched Peter's collapse to the floor with complete disbelief and a tearing anguish that was all too familiar. His friend just couldn't be dead. He'd promised to leap tall buildings. Neal stared, waiting for him to get up, gazing at the knife that appeared to quiver unnaturally, standing straight up from his friend's back. Condron relaxed as he too watched, although satisfaction was prominent in his gaze. Fury blazed through Neal, and with a lithe twist, he broke free of his captor's grip, slamming an elbow backwards before diving for Peter's weapon, which lay beneath the agent's still hand. He gave no thought to his usual aversion for guns. Last time, the people who caused his grief were shadowy figures, untouchable in their anonymity, but now they were right here, smug in their victory, and he wanted them to pay. Peter didn't deserve this.

If he'd been capable of rational thought, he might have considered the consequences of being found in a room with three dead FBI agents, but the need to protect Peter as he lay helpless and the desire to make his putative murderers pay bypassed anything that might have been considered logical. If he'd only had Condron to contend with, he might have succeeded in turning the tables, but it was too much to expect to outfight two trained agents in his injured state. Even as he dove for the gun, the fake maid moved to intercept. He deflected her first kick, but the second caught him in his side, crumpling him in an agonised ball, the bitterness of failure a heavy stone in the cairn of loss and grief that weighed so heavily on him.

He lay there, conscious of the throbbing of blood in his face, pulsing painfully in his cheekbone where Condron had hit him. The two OPR agents were arguing over the merits of disposing of him there or following through with their original plans, but Neal ignored them as he inched closer to Peter's body. The gun had been picked up, so he contemplated using the knife in a last-ditch attack. However, he vaguely remembered that removing an object from a wound could hasten death through blood loss. The knife must be an efficient plug since he couldn't see any blood around it, unlike the large pool that had gathered under his friend's arm. It glistened a startlingly viscous crimson, like the painting of a lurid sunset over...He shook himself viciously, realising he was starting to fade, but the thought of paint gave him an idea, a last chance at justice even if it might be from the grave.

With slow, unobtrusive movements, he dipped a finger in the pool and started writing the letters OPR. It wasn't as easy as he assumed. The liquid was congealing, sticking to his fingers, and the end result wouldn't win him any calligraphy awards, but, for once, substance was more important than style. Gently, almost reverently, he picked up his friend's lax hand, intending to place it over the letters to conceal his efforts. Peter's skin was still warm, and for a moment, hope radiated like liquid fire, almost as painful as despair.

"Peter?" he whispered. His vision was decidedly hazy from the blow to the head, but he thought he caught a movement, and a sudden thrum sang through his nerves. However, before he could verify the possibility, he became aware that the two agents had reached a decision.

"We need to get moving. Burke might have alerted his people. Go bring the car around, and I'll meet you there with Caffrey."

Neal's heart was racing, but the sudden realisation of his dilemma hit him like a defibrillator to the chest. If Peter was still alive, he needed immediate medical attention, but if either of the rogue agents even suspected he was still alive, they would immediately remedy their oversight. They couldn't afford to let him live now; he knew too much. So, although every nerve strained to discover if Peter was still alive, to offer the medical aid that might make the difference between life and death, Neal knew he couldn't do anything that might draw attention to his friend. He had to distract the rogue agents from even considering the possibility.

He staggered to his feet and followed an uncertain trajectory to a chair to the right of Condron. To keep Neal in his line of sight, the agent would no longer have Peter in his field of vision. Neal wondered if puking on the man's shoes would be distracting enough, because it was about as aggressive as he could get. For a man who lived by his facile tongue and what amounted to a professor emeritus of conning, he was at a complete loss for anything to say that didn't sound suspiciously wrong to his own ears. He sat down stiffly and said nothing, scrubbing his hands across his face, feeling the stubble that had surpassed his usual designer-casual stage.

Condron seemed preoccupied by his own problems, pacing back and forth and stopping occasionally to lift up a window blind and peer outside. His phone rang, and he answered merely to grunt an acknowledgment. It was clearly his co-conspirator signaling her readiness since, after closing the phone, he strode over to Neal and resumed his earlier grasping technique, hauling the conman to his feet.

Neal swatted weakly at him, not really attempting to free himself, merely expressing his displeasure. "Get your hands off me, you murdering bastard."

Condron yanked him in closer. "If you want to survive the next few hours, I suggest you do exactly as I say. I've got nothing to lose at this point, so shut up and don't try anything."

Neal meekly obeyed, having already decided that any attempts at escape should be postponed until they were outside. He was dragged to the door, and it took more self-control than he'd ever exerted to not look back. He knew the chances were that he'd never learn if Peter had survived, and Peter would never know the sacrifice Neal had made to try to ensure that possibility. Yet the optimist in him preferred that scenario to the definite knowledge that his friend was dead.

The bright sunlight stabbed him in the eyes as he stepped out of the air-conditioned comfort of June's house, ratcheting up the scale of his concussive headache. His knees buckled in protest, and only Condron's grip prevented him from rolling untidily down the steps.

"I said no funny business." A shake accompanied the growl as he was marched down the stairs.

Neal wondered where passing out rated on the scale of funny business. His rather optimistic and simple plan had been to get loose, take off running, and lose himself in the helpfully concealing crowds of people. It had seemed like a good plan with the double benefits of leading them away from Peter and saving his own skin. But now its weaknesses were revealed. Firstly, this was just not the most populous area of New York and, secondly, a one-legged octogenarian on tranquilizers could run faster than him.

Unintentionally, he fell back on a previous plan. "I'm going to throw up," he warned Condron, and it took only a glance at his ashen, sweat-sheened face for the agent to be convinced and to shove him roughly away, allowing Neal to empty his stomach with a modicum of privacy. He was vaguely aware of the female agent shouting something urgent from the car, but he was too lost in his own misery to pay much attention. Vomiting with a broken rib was an experience he devoutly hoped never to repeat.

Neal had ejected all the contents of his stomach, which wasn't very much, and he panted miserably trying to stop the cycle of retching. The first volley of shots took him by surprise. For a moment, he hoped that it was a signal that Peter was alive and coming to his rescue. It took a ricochet pinging past his ear for him to cease his prairie dog impression and hug the pavement instead. He would have liked to have retreated back inside the house, but realised that the journey up the steps would make him an easy target. Playing possum seemed to be both a safer and easier course of action.

There were more shots and shouting, but nobody identified themselves as FBI or police as Neal had originally hoped. The newcomers clearly outnumbered and outgunned the OPR agents. Condron was in an exposed position, and only the fact that he was obviously wearing a bullet-proof vest had kept him alive this long. His attackers clearly caught on to this fact, and he crashed down a mere two feet from Neal, a bullethole between dead eyes that stared cloudily past him. Neal's stomach made another bid for freedom at the sight, but in all honesty, he couldn't regret the man's death as he remembered the violent threats and coercion, and, most of all, Peter's still body lying inside.

At her partner's demise, the female agent floored the accelerator, and with a screech of tires, the car jumped forward. A hail of bullets followed her progress, and out of Neal's field of vision, a rending crash strongly suggested her fate.

The gunfire ceased, but a cacophony of voices screaming and horns and alarms blaring replaced its din. It felt like a war zone, the sights and sounds of battle enhanced by the drifting smell of cordite and the metallic hint of blood. Neal remembered what Condron had said about the Russian mob gearing up for war and wondered if their orders were to take no prisoners or whether they were looking for someone to interrogate about their missing items.

The pavement was hot and gravely, biting into his face as he lay unmoving. The sun danced savagely on his back causing a rivulet of sweat to trickle down his spine, but he remained motionless, playing dead to avoid being dead. The sirens were getting nearer, offering a spiteful ray of hope which was quickly shattered by the sound of footsteps running toward him. He spoke several languages fluently, but Russian wasn't one of them. However, he could identify its distinctive sounds.

Neal Caffrey wasn't one to lie passively waiting for death to come to him. He was by nature proactive. If Death walked up to him, scythe in hand, Neal would persuade him to hand it over, promising he'd return it to him soon, twice as sharp and three times as deadly, and Death would smile, nod, and present him with it. Under normal circumstances, he might have been able to concoct a dozen worthy cons on the spot, but although his entire body was thrumming with adrenaline from the gun-battle, his brain was slowly sliding into exhaustion. His only plan was to play for time and a chance for escape in the future. To do that, he intended to make a strength out of his literal weakness. He knew he was concussed, so he would play that role to the hilt.

He groaned loudly, then attempted to sit up, the head rush almost causing him to face plant back in the street. In the interest of verisimilitude, he started retching enthusiastically, as if his stomach were trying to find a way out of his body by any means necessary. He heard an exclamation of disgust behind him and willed his potential abductors to find him too revolting to transport in their vehicle.

There was a brief, but heated, discussion in Russian during which Neal pretended to be oblivious to their presence and to anything that didn't involve his physical condition. He couldn't restrain a short cry as a hand tightened in his hair and jerked his head back, the bright rays of sunlight sending daggers into his brain. Blurred faces swam before his vision, but he kept his gaze unfocused before allowing his eyelids to slide shut, and wobbled weakly in their grip.

Evidently, the scrutiny was for identification purposes, a task made harder by his bruised and swollen face. There was another brief Slavic conference, before the men decided that he was indeed their target and started dragging him toward their car. Struggling would have been futile and broken his cover, so he hung limply between them. He also didn't want resistance on his part to encourage any would-be heroes, the type of idiots who run towards rather than away from gunfire, to attempt a rescue and get themselves killed. Inevitably, that brought his thoughts back to Peter in a wave of deep desolation.

Could his friend really have survived that final blow or was that faint movement just wishful thinking on his part? Peter hadn't been wearing his vest; Neal was familiar with the way that bulked him up, destroyed the already tenuous cut of his suit. He wished he could recapture that whisper of hope that had infused him with the strength of resistance, but it had fallen silent, and with it, his last dregs of energy bled away, leaving him utterly drained.

He was flung into the back of a van with scant ceremony, and the vehicle peeled away. It traveled only a couple of blocks before pulling into a side street and parking innocently while several police cars, sirens wailing in classic Doppler shift, raced past. It then resumed its journey at a more sedate pace.

Neal lay in a fetal ball, his body rocked by the swaying of the van, but otherwise motionless. An inborn sense of direction provided him with the knowledge that they were following a trail similar to that which Condron had driven the night before. The knowledge that he was being taken back to Shorovosky should have terrified him, but the concept of self-preservation had become oddly hard to access, submerged as it was under murky fathoms of anger and plain exhaustion. He allowed himself to drift deeper into those tepid waters, lulled into semi-consciousness by the soporific motion of the vehicle.

Shorovosky might be the scourge of the Brooklyn slums and the curse of the Manhattan brownstones, but he had moved his own residence out of the city to a more secure location where he could set up his fifty acres of walled, guarded property in relative privacy. There were no immediate neighbours to witness illegal activity or report suspicious noises. Neither were there surreptitious ways to enter the large nineteenth century mansion; it was too well guarded by a top-of-the-line security system and a private army that would have done credit to a small country. If Neal had ever felt impelled to take the suicidal option of breaking into the Russian mob's headquarters, it would have taken a masterful con rather than lockpicks and black bags.

They passed through the security checkpoint at the iron gates with a few curt words, then the tires crunched up the gravel driveway. The prospect of the upcoming confrontation with the Russian mobster fired a spark of adrenaline in Neal's tired body, and he allowed himself to consider what lay ahead. It should be easy to maintain the role he'd already established; he just had to exaggerate the symptoms a little, to play the confused, nauseous, injured man - cooperative, but with a mind too muddled to be helpful.

He refused to allow himself to anticipate Shorovosky's reaction, it was irrelevant to his own performance. He didn't expect his condition to generate any sympathy, but hopefully they'd realise that beating him would be counterproductive. His belief in his own web of fabrication had to be nearly complete if it were to hold the weight of his survival in its flimsy strands.

He mumbled incoherently as he was dragged out of the van and into the house. For the first time, he gave himself over to the acute throb in his right cheekbone and temple, allowing it to flare, loud and piercing, like a shard of shattered metal, enclosing himself in a bubble of pain. He felt perspiration beading down the back of his neck as his stomach roiled greasily again, but this time he embraced the sensation.

Neal paid no attention to their progress through the house; he was already familiar with the layout of the rooms, but he could still sense a higher level of activity and hostility, that grated on his senses like an angry buzz as if he were an intruder in a bee hive. It was clear that his impulsive theft had had consequences far beyond what he had anticipated. That edge of malice was demonstrated in a vicious shove that sent him crashing down to his knees, the impact pounding through him like a shock wave, causing the nauseated spinning to intensify and twisting his stomach.

With a mental shrug, he decided not to fight the urge to vomit. Throwing up in public appeared to be his new party trick, extraordinarily uncomfortable and disgusting, but nonetheless impressive to those watching. Besides, he found a certain satisfaction in damaging the fine Turkish rug that adorned the floor of the ostentatiously decorated study. It wasn't as if there was really anything left to disgorge, but he retched with an enthusiasm that left him sucking in shattered breaths and shivering with cold sweat.

There was a torrent of Russian sputtering above his head, but he ignored it as he swayed precariously on his knees and waited for the world to swim back into focus. He wasn't given much time to compose himself as once again a hand in his hair yanked his head back, tilting it upwards. His eyes watered automatically, as sensitive to the artificial light as they had been to the sunlight earlier. He knew Vasily Shorovosky was an imposing figure with heavy eyelids under beetling brows, black hair, plastered down slick, and a trimmed beard, but all Neal could see was a pale blur, a vague shape behind the blob of light and colour clouding his vision.

"You've got clever hands, Mr. Caffrey." There was only the barest trace of a Russian accent in his speech, a slight flattening of the long vowels and a roll to his r's, but the malice was unambiguous. "You might have been of use to my organisation. But you have inconvenienced me, even embarrassed me, which makes you a liability to any potential employers. If you immediately return what you have stolen, maybe I will just have those dexterous hands broken, as a reminder to keep them off other people's property."

There was no continuation of the threat, no dire warnings of torture and death if he didn't comply. The mobster probably correctly assumed that the imagination could more effectively supply what was implied if not explicitly stated.

"Where...? I don't..." Neal kept his tone just the right side of slurred. There was a fine line between the symptoms of concussion and those of drunkenness, and he didn't want to stray on the side of inebriation.

The form loomed ominously over him, coalescing at the edges into a blurry mass of Russian don. "I want the papers back that you stole."

"Stole? I didn't...I don't..." The stutter held confusion laced with fear.

"Mr. Caffrey, I'm not renowned for my patience."

There lay the potential flaw in the plan; - that Shorovosky's temper would outweigh his common sense, ending the charade before he was convinced of its veracity. Maybe another round of puking would help sell Neal's performance.

Neal allowed a moment's awareness to slip through. "I stole...yes, the diamonds. I stole the diamonds. I remember...I remember that."

Shorovosky slammed his fist on the table beside him. "Chto ty nesesh!* Not the diamonds, you idiot. Where are my papers?"

Neal kept his stare vacant. "He made me do it. He made me steal the diamonds."

The blow snapped his head to one side, flecks of fire exploding before his eyes. Neal just had time to register an odd satisfaction before a fog of blackness settled over him.

Feeling a sense of justification from being knocked unconscious might have been taking method acting too far, but Neal had to suppress a small smile of triumph, turning it into a wince of poorly disguised pain, when he recovered to find himself the subject of a down and dirty neurological exam. He doubted the 'doctor' had a medical license to go with his professional abilities, but a physician without any Hippocratic hangups must be useful in such an organisation.

"Pupils are nonequal. He's definitely concussed." The monotone diagnosis lacked any compassion.

"I need answers from him now." Shorovosky's frustration thickened his accent.

"I doubt he could remember his name right now." The doctor's articulation was vaguely Germanic, and Neal wondered mistily if being Russian was a prerequisite for being a member of the Russian mafia.

"We could be very persuasive on that issue."

"If it was a matter of him just refusing to talk, I have no doubt that he would tell you everything you wanted to hear. This is a matter of being physically incapable of doing so. I would strongly suggest that you wait at least until morning to give him time to recover, and then keep all your 'persuasion' away from his head or you'll be questioning a dead body."

Neal decided that the blood dripping down his face was the best contribution he could make to the debate and concentrated on maintaining the sluggish reactions and disorientation that would support the postponement of further violence. It also occurred to him that the ease with which he tuned out the conversation that was more than a little pertinent to his future probably supported the hypothesis that he was concussed.

He must have faded out again, because the next time he was aware of his surroundings, he was handcuffed to a bed, the metal jingling as he inadvertently tugged on the links. He stilled, eyes scanning the room, trying to reconcile the silence and isolation with his last memories. The room was small, the likelihood that it was used for storage supported by the presence of two stacks of boxes in a corner. There was nothing overtly threatening in the small space, no bars on the windows or cameras watching his movements. It probably wasn't surprising that they were so casual about the opportunity to escape. There wasn't anywhere to go. The grounds security was impenetrable - a gauntlet of dogs and uzis.

Neal held no illusions about the possibilities of escaping the premises. His objective was more limited. In a house this size, there must be plenty of forgotten nooks and crannies, and he was the master of the adult version of hide and seek. He just needed more time.

It was the work of seconds to free himself from the cuffs. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the way the room spun around him, but it was less easy to disregard the rusty creaking of old bed springs. He froze in place, heart thudding thunderously in his chest as he waited to see if anyone had been alerted by the sound, but the soft murmur of faraway voices remained unchanged, so he completed the movement, wincing at each reverberating squeak.

He locked trembling knees and grasped the metal head board with white knuckles to prevent himself from toppling over as his head protested the upright position, his vision swooping and wheeling in tympanic glee. He took several steadying breaths, fighting against the symptoms that he'd so recently welcomed. His ribs protested that rigorous workout, but his mind cleared, so he took a tentative step towards the window, brushing his hand against the wall to maintain his faltering balance. With that success bolstering his confidence, he padded softly and slowly across the wooden floor until he sidled up to the window and risked a peek through the grimy glass.

In the crepuscular light he could just make out an armed guard patrolling the razor-wire topped wall. Hardly moving as much as an eyelash, he waited and watched, cataloging patterns, the frequency and distance of each sentry he could see, where they crossed, where they stopped, and the interest each man displayed in his duty. Once he could predict the timing of their movements with some certainty, he attempted to unlatch the window. The latch resisted the torque his fingers could produce, so he changed position to gain a more effective grip. It was still an awkward angle, but, to his relief, it grated open. Luckily, the window itself didn't prove as stubborn. He eased it open in small increments, timing it with the guards' movements to eradicate any chance of it catching the dying rays of the sun and flashing an untimely warning of his intent. It helped that the window of the storage room was recessed back with a large gable holding a prominent place on each side.

The quickly encroaching darkness would also help conceal his exit, but he knew only too well how easily unexpected movement could catch the eye. The guard on the left disappeared behind the gable, which meant that Neal had 45 seconds before another sentry approached from the right. Under normal circumstances, it would have taken one lithe twist and he'd have been out of the window. One more quick movement, and he'd have made it to the roof. As it was, his exit wouldn't have won any style points from the Russian judge, and it left him shaking as he hung uncertainly on the thankfully sturdy drainpipe while he waited once more for his head to stop spinning.

He pushed the window closed before starting to ease his way upward. It was only a couple of feet, but the nagging pain in his side stretched the distance exponentially, and he finally inched his way onto the gentle slope of the roof with the relief and exhaustion of a mountaineer surmounting the summit, barely able to summon the energy to crawl the necessary yards to reach the sheltering bulk of a chimney. He knew it was only a temporary refuge. Once his absence was discovered, someone was sure to check the roof. However, Neal didn't attempt to move until night had fully fallen, offering concealment.

It wasn't truly dark, the spotlights glaring from the house ensured that, but they would be shining in the eyes of anyone looking in his direction, hopefully blinding them to his presence. His progress was slow, the tiles still warm from the heat of the day under his hands and knees. He had no special destination in mind, but he moved instinctively away from the relatively modern wing to the older construction at the center. Older buildings, constructed without the expectation of technological assistance to perform maintenance, tended to be more burglar friendly.

The original building had been symmetrical, large eaves to the back and front and solid stone chimneys back to back which had, at one time, led up from the only source of heat available - large fireplaces. Now, if any of them were still used, the warmth of the summer would preclude their employment. Unlike more modern flues, chimneys of this age were built of a convenient size for climbing boys to perform their arduous and dangerous cleaning, so Neal knew his slim build would fit inside.

They might be accessible, but they were far from ideal as a hiding place, and suitable choices were few, so Neal tossed a mental coin, ultimately picking a chimney towards the back of the mansion. He was relieved to find the cap could be easily removed with assistance from his belt buckle. The shaft itself was pitch black, offering no clues as to the possible occupancy of the room below. He slid in, wedging himself in the shaft while he replaced the cap as best he could from the inside.

The flue wasn't as filthy as he expected, obviously unused for a long time. It stank heavily of soot, but he dislodged little by way of particulate matter in his descent. After the first couple of yards, there were even some rough footholds, placed for the convenience of the climbing boys, which eased the stress on his aching side.

The heat, stench, closeness, and complete absence of light imbued his descent with every aspect of a nightmare, a partial sensory deprivation that robbed him of any sense of time. Not only could he not tell how long he'd been in the shaft, he couldn't tell how far he'd climbed down, so he was surprised when he sensed a widening in the space around his legs, just before his feet encountered an obstruction. He tested it with a tentative push, but it held firm. The chimney had clearly been blocked off. Strangely enough, this wasn't necessarily bad news. If he'd reentered the house, there would have been a trail, and discovery would have been inevitable.

Neal curled up in the small alcove, relaxing in the knowledge that there was nothing further he could do. Peter would find him, Peter could always find him. It was a strange truism in his life that once he had resented, but now he relied upon.

He basked in that surety, before the memory crept into his befuddled mind that Peter might not ever find him again. It hit him harder than any other blow that day, robbing him of breath and leaving a lump in his throat too big to breathe around.

Peter had become his rock, his anchor, the one thing in his uncertain world that he could depend on. He could always rely on Peter to do the right thing even if it went against the agent's own best interests. It was amazing, considering their history, that Neal could call him friend and partner. In pursuit of that, Peter might not jump over the line, but he'd reach out and smudge it, blurring its clarity. Perhaps most importantly, he'd reach over and yank Neal back to his side. As agent and CI, they'd formed a strange interdependency and a trust that Neal had never experienced before. In the interstices of that trust and Peter's expectations and steadfast guidance, Neal had found a new definition of himself that he liked.

He remembered the flash of the knife as it descended towards Peter's back, but he also remembered the warmth of his friend's hand, and that phantom movement. This time his prayer of, 'You have to find me, Peter,' was not for himself. Peter had to find him because it would mean the agent was alive to do so.

* What are you drivelling about?


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: Thanks again to all those who've taken the time to review. It's so very encouraging to hear from you.

Chapter 7

Peter swam hazily back to consciousness with the sensation of an elephant sitting on his chest. No, that wasn't right, because he was lying on his front. With that realisation, he tried to mentally reorient himself. His eyes fluttered open to discover his face was up close and personal with a wooden floor, which probably explained the savage headache that encompassed his entire skull. For a long moment, he was completely at a loss to explain the circumstances that had left him prone on the ground. Then his memory exploded in a personal big-bang of recollections, his awareness expanding rapidly outward to take in the absence of Neal and the OPR agents and what sounded like an all-out gun battle outside. Instinctively making the connection between the latter two observations, Peter staggered to his feet, knowing his friend was in trouble.

The effort demanded by merely standing up seemed to drain every drop of energy from him, and he stood for several seconds swaying dizzily. As he took a small step forward, his foot slipped, and he gazed uncomprehendingly at the pool of blood that had cost him traction. But it was impossible to gather his thoughts into cogent form, and it seemed more important to locate his gun than figure out that small mystery. Yet even that eluded him, and the sound of a tearing crash from outside forced him to abandon the futile search, and he started lurching towards the door, ricocheting off furniture and walls like a pinball on crack. An attempt to fend off a particularly aggressive wall caused a starburst of agony to shoot up his arm, almost sending him to his knees. A tentative exploration revealed a deep laceration slicing down his tricep. He made the connection between the hole in his arm and the pool of blood, but the implications still seemed too hard to grasp. The imperative of finding Neal kept all other concerns at bay, so he pushed off the wall and stumbled the rest of the way to the door.

The shock of bright sunlight after the dim interior of the house initially obscured his vision, and he swung up his uninjured arm to shield his eyes from the worst of the glare as he started down the steps. As his sight adjusted, he spotted Windlow/Condron crumpled in the reckless abandonment of death against the wall. The bullet hole between his staring eyes removed any doubt as to his condition. Nearly twenty yards away, another body lay and, taking in the dark hair and slim build, Peter's heart seized in an agonised moment of terror before his mind rejected the identification. He might not remember what Neal had been wearing, but the young conman literally wouldn't be seen dead in that striped jacket.

The tableau was mostly frozen, no bystanders daring to stir, so movement further down the street immediately caught Peter's attention, and this time recognition was immediate. The limp body of his partner was being bundled into a van.

"Neal!" he tried to shout, but the dry croak emanating from his lips wouldn't be heard two feet away. On reflection, that wasn't a bad thing; he should be armed before he attracted the attention of the gunmen. Condron had been armed! Peter spun around, frantically scanning the area for the rogue agent's weapon. A quick assessment of the man's position gave him the likely trajectory of a gun flung from his lifeless hand, and, after a few seconds searching, he found it almost concealed beneath a parked car. He seized it up and brought it to bear in a smooth continuation of the same movement on the van that had already started to accelerate away. His eyesight was blurry, but the tires were a large enough target that he wasn't concerned.

He squeezed the trigger carefully, but the dull click that resulted revealed that Condron had emptied the weapon before he died. There was no time for even the string of invective that rose to his lips at this calamity. In the next second, he was tearing through the clothes of a dead man trying to find a new clip, but by the time he'd succeeded, the old clip ejected and the new one inserted with military speed, it was too late; the van was disappearing neatly around a corner even as he aimed. The world narrowed down to the sound of his own breathing and the rush of blood in his ears as his insides clenched in blind dread at the knowledge that Neal was in the hands of the mob.

It was at that point that the NYPD showed up. Too accustomed to sirens and too focused on rescuing his trouble-prone friend, Peter tuned out their arrival. He was abruptly recalled to the dangers of such obliviousness as a voice sharply called, "NYPD! Put down the gun, now!"

Being the only armed man left standing at the scene of a minor massacre did tend to make the police look at you a little askance. Peter didn't drop the gun, but released his grip, allowing it to dangle from a finger through the trigger guard while he spread both arms out from his body in an unthreatening posture. His left arm violently protested against the stance.

"I'm an FBI agent." He spoke calmly, swallowing back the urgency that bubbled up from the pit of his stomach and attempted to rip through his vocal chords in a guttural growl. "My identification is in my pocket. There's been a kidnapping and every second is critical. You need to put out a ..."

He wasn't allowed to finish. "Sir, place the gun on the ground, now. Step away and lace your fingers behind your head."

Peter chafed at the delay, but he could understand that the body at his feet was making the LEOs a trifle trigger happy. To his relief, as he started to bend towards the ground, another siren-bedecked car wailed into the picture, sliding to a showy stop beside the NYPD vehicle, and Diana practically levitated out of the door, her FBI identification displayed prominently.

"Lower your weapons. He's an FBI agent."

The police obeyed with palpable reluctance, but Peter had already dismissed them as unimportant, focused on bringing his team up to date as succinctly as possible. "Neal's been kidnapped. You need to put out an alert for a Ford van E-series, probably 2008 or 9, light brown. It was too far away for me to see the license plates, but there was a Mets sticker on the bumper. They were heading north."

Jones, half out of the driver seat, waved confirmation. "Got it." He disappeared back inside the vehicle.

Diana moved towards Peter, concern tightening her face as she spotted the blood dripping sluggishly from his hand. "You okay, boss?"

"I'm fine, but I think you should check on..." He never got to finish his suggestion, because as he turned to indicate the crashed vehicle with the OPR female agent, Diana let out a muffled gasp unlike anything he'd ever heard her utter before, and he spun back to her in alarm.

Her normally unflappable countenance was twisted with appalled shock.

"What?" he asked with concern, repeating it again with mounting irritation as he got no intelligible response, merely a shaking finger pointing vaguely in his direction.

He tried to twist to see behind him, but the movement not only hurt his arm but also made him feel stupidly like a dog chasing his tail, and he quickly desisted.

Diana had snapped out of her shock. "Call an ambulance," she barked to Jones. "Boss, don't move, keep still."

Peter obeyed, her brief loss of composure convincing him that something was seriously wrong. "What is it? Is there a bee on my back, a bomb?"

"Not exactly." Diana was now behind him. He couldn't see her expression, but there was perplexity in her voice.

He couldn't help but flinch as her cool hands slid up his back under his shirt. "Hey watch it. El has a thing about hands and other women. Last time, I had to wash the dishes for a week." _Female body inspector_. He could hear the teasing lilt in Neal's voice, and an involuntary smile tugged his lips at the memory.

"Last time, Boss?"

Peter relaxed; the strain had disappeared from Diana's voice, so whatever had caused so much agitation had been resolved.

One of her hands braced against his back and he felt a strange tug. Then she appeared in front of him, a knife dangling from her handkerchief-covered fingers.

"Was that...?"

"Sticking out of the middle of your back. Yeah," Diana finished for him. "However, it was stuck right where the two shoulder straps of your holster cross - reinforced leather. It saved your life. There's not even a scratch. However, your arm's a mess. We need to get you to a hospital."

"My arm's going to have to wait. You can find something to bandage it up for me in Neal's room," he conceded as Diana started to protest. "Neal's been taken, and he's running out of time."

He patted his pockets down one-handed. "Damn it, where's my cell phone?" The memory of the standoff on the stairs resurfaced. "That's right, it's in the house. Diana, could you get that for me? Jones, call the Marshall's office to get the tracking data for Neal's anklet. Oh, and see if you can put a trace on his phone. Perhaps he still has it."

His team members both reluctantly moved off to follow directions, and Peter was grateful for the temporary solitude. He sucked in a deep lungful of humid air, trying to clear his mind, but emotions battered at him, anger and fear churning thickly in equal measures. He'd failed in his promise to protect Neal. Desperation wound like a snake around his belly, then slid stealthily up his throat.

He raised his head, taking another deep breath and rubbing his aching temple. During the last couple of days he'd felt as if he'd been at the epicenter of a seven point nine earthquake, worry for his friend and partner destroying his defenses. But now, he had to rebuild walls and barriers, batten down his hatches. Neal needed him to be Agent Peter Burke, the capable FBI agent who had found him when no one else could - twice. He let everything but that determination fade away, blurring into so much white noise. He felt a little like a shattered piece of crockery, held together by spit and glue, but that implacable resolve to find his partner would conceal those cracks from those around him, and maybe from himself.

Diana returned, looking shaken as she handed Peter his cell phone that she had been balancing on top of first aid supplies. "It looks like a slaughterhouse in there, Boss. Blood on the floor, smeared on the walls and stairs. Is it all yours?"

Peter started to nod, then shook his head. "No, Neal's too." He didn't go into details.

She gently pushed him into a sitting position on the steps and started to work on his arm. "What's going on? What happened?"

Peter tried to gather his thoughts sufficiently to summarize the afternoon's events, without betraying Neal's initial activities. "That one," he nodded towards Condron, "and the lady in the car are OPR agents. They forced Neal to steal something from the Russian mob. This," his gesture indicated the wider area of chaos, "was the Russians hitting back."

He flinched with a sharp intake of breath as Diana's ministrations bypassed painful with a quick dip into excruciating. "This needs stitches, Boss. You've lost a lot of blood."

"I don't have time. Neal doesn't have time." Once more, he reined back the desperation that bled through into his voice. "I'll be fine. Please just wrap it up."

She obeyed in a silence that made her disapproval known. Once she'd finished, Peter stood up a little shakily, then eyed his bloodstained, torn shirt with disfavour.

"I need a change of clothes. My car's across the street, and there's a clean shirt and jacket in the back. Use the electronic key to open it from a distance. Condron threatened a bomb. I'm pretty sure he didn't actually do anything, but don't take any chances."

Jones came hurrying over with a look of confusion on his face that enabled Peter to anticipate his news. "The tracking data shows Neal to be here, in his apartment."

Peter grimaced in frustration. "The program's been sabotaged. Get back to the Marshalls, and tell them that they're being sent false data. I suggest they reboot the program. We don't have time for this." He turned to Diana as she came hurrying up with some clothes. "I need you to stay here. I'm fairly sure I know where they've taken Neal, and I'm going after him."

His agents exchanged dismayed glances. "You can't leave the scene of an officer shooting," Jones pointed out tentatively. The rules were specific on this matter.

"I haven't shot anyone," Peter bulldozed over their protests. "I haven't even fired a gun. I don't even know where mine is. This belongs to Condron. It's got my fingerprints on it, but a GSR test will show I haven't fired. This may be the scene of a shooting, but to me, it's primarily the scene of a kidnapping, and I'm following up on that crime to prevent another murder."

They didn't look convinced, so Peter continued. "Look, the Russian mob has taken Neal. They think he has something they want, but he doesn't have it; I do. When they figure it out, they'll kill him. I'm not about to let that happen."

Diana regarded her boss closely. Tight lines were etched around somber eyes, and his shoulders were in a constant state of tension, but she recognised the determination in his eyes. This was a man she admired above all others. She respected his sense of discipline, his protectiveness, and his passionate sense of duty, regardless of what the job cost him. She also recognised the strong bond that existed between her boss and his young CI and knew that right now no argument would deter Peter from this course of action.

"You're in no condition to drive," was the only objection she voiced.

"I'll drive," Jones interjected. It was a statement, not an offer.

Urgency skittered along Peter's spine like an electrical charge, tightening every muscle with the compulsion to act. It had already been too long since Neal was abducted. He wasn't going to waste more time arguing. "Okay, let's move. Diana, once you've finished here, get back to the office. As soon as we have proof of Neal's location, get a warrant and a SWAT team to back it up."

Peter gave Jones directions to Shorovosky's mansion, trusting to his gut instinct that that was where Neal was being taken. Neal's cell phone had been found back at June's, and it would take a while before the Marshalls' office could identify and correct the fault in their program.

The painkiller that Diane had pressed on him did little to dull the duet of throbbing in his arm and head, but it was his worry for Neal that was still obliterating his ability to think productively. The Russian mob was notorious for its brutality, and Neal's inimitable charm and facile tongue weren't going to help him this time.

His hands clenched helplessly as his mind threw up images of former victims of their interrogations. He wasn't going to let Neal suffer that fate. Jones sensed his preoccupation and, apart from casting frequent concerned glances in his direction, left him to his thoughts.

The light was fading as they drew close enough to Shorovosky's for Peter to deem it safer for them to pull off the road, awaiting confirmation of Neal's location. It was impossible for Peter to find a comfortable position for his aching body, and despite his weariness, he was sitting bolt upright in the car, tense with the need to act. The sound of the phone jolted him from his contemplation. It wasn't Diana as he'd hoped, but Hughes.

"Peter, you're right," he said without preamble. "Rebooted data from the tracking program shows Neal to be at Shorovosky's. We're in the process of getting a warrant, and we should have it and a team to your location within the hour. Until then, you're to hold tight. Keep your position and wait for backup. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Peter answered automatically before closing his phone, his hand falling limply into his lap. _An hour_.

Peter had been an FBI agent for a long time. He knew how to follow orders and understood the reasons behind those orders. What could he accomplish now by disobeying them? But Hughes didn't have all the facts. He didn't know the trump card that Peter held, and it wasn't the older man's partner being detained and possibly tortured by the Russians.

"I'm going in." The words were out of his mouth before he was even aware he had made the decision. This was his Rubicon. He was crossing a line here. He was about to totally ignore a direct order. Of course, it was ridiculous to contemplate the official reprimand or demotion he might receive when there was a good chance the Russians would kill him and, if they didn't, Elizabeth...he wasn't going to go there, he couldn't. She would understand. Neal had become part of their family.

Turning to give instructions to Jones, he almost laughed at the frozen expression on that young man's face. Jones looked as if he couldn't decide on the relative merits of a straight jacket or a pair of handcuffs.

"But, Sir, Hughes said we should stay here." As if Peter might have gone deaf, or the order given a minute ago might have slipped from his concussion-addled memory. And damn Hughes for having such a strident voice that it had reached the other occupant of the car.

Peter spoke steadily and firmly. "Hughes doesn't have all the information. He's also not here, and I'm making a field command decision."

"Peter, you can't." Jones' voice was low in earnestness. "If you go in, all you're doing is offering them another hostage. You'll tie up the SWAT team's hands."

Privately, Peter thought that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. The SWAT team might not care too much about the safety of a convicted felon, but they tended to be more protective of one of their own. However, he offered a more acceptable defense. "With me in there, I hope it won't even come to shooting. But at worst, if it does, you have a negotiator inside."

He pulled the envelope out of his pocket and handed it over to the other agent. "This is what they want. I've already photographed it and sent a copy to Cryptography, but the Russians don't have to know that. You stay here, and I'll call you if I need these papers to seal the deal."

Clinton Jones was normally a most dependable and loyal subordinate, but at the moment he looked remarkably mutinous, but then Peter wasn't exactly setting a good example in following orders.

"If you're going in, then I'm coming in with you. Neal is my friend too."

Peter summoned the most reassuring smile from Neal's repertoire. "Look, I have a plan." It was true if the slight kernel of an idea that he was cultivating could generously be titled a plan. "You're my ace in the hole, and I need you out here with the papers."

Clearly exposure to Neal was improving his ability to equivocate because, after examining his sincere expression, Jones nodded abruptly and got out of the car. Once outside, he bent down and looked through the still-open door. "Peter..." He stopped and bit his lip. Peter had the feeling it was to prevent himself from saying, 'I hope you know what the hell you're doing.' It was certainly the question at the top of his own mind. In the end, Jones just offered a tight smile. "Be careful," he said and shut the door firmly.

As Peter drove away, a glance in the rearview mirror showed him Jones looking perturbed and irresolute. However, even as he watched, the other agent pulled his cell phone out and started dialing. It took no detective work on Peter's part to figure out whom he was calling. The trouble Peter was already inviting was nothing compared to the consequences of disobeying a specific order not to enter the Russian's house. He couldn't afford to receive that command, so, with a sense of irrevocability, he gently thumbed his phone off. Plausible deniability really was the watchword of the day.

Suddenly, the car seemed very quiet. The purring of the motor did nothing to dispel a silence that was almost overwhelming and allowed bleak thoughts and feelings of desperation to rampage unchecked through his mind. He was truly alone. His partner was lost, and he was operating without the approval of the FBI. This meant he was balanced precariously on a tightrope over a very long drop with no safety net in sight. Despite that awareness, his foot remained steady on the accelerator.

The neat hedgerow running beside the road yielded to a long, razor-wire topped wall. In the fading light, Peter could see several video cameras marking his progress. It was a small reminder of the power of this organised crime family. A glance at his watch showed him that Neal had been in their hands for more than an hour. He could feel his mouth drying out as cold tendrils of fear wrapped around his heart. Once again, he tamped down the accompanying rage which simmered under his skin, knowing he had to keep his emotions in check.

He pulled in at the security gate with no hesitation, powering the window down and holding out his credentials. "Special Agent Burke, FBI," he identified himself. "I want to see your boss. Tell him, I have information on something he's been looking for."

His heart was beating savagely against his ribs, but he kept his expression blandly unconcerned as the security guard went to call for approval. After a brief consultation, he was waved through. This time, he kept his eyes facing forward, not watching the gates close behind him like the teeth of a trap.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Two large, taciturn men armed with semi-automatics met Peter as he exited his car. They frisked him first for weapons, then ran a wand over him to scan for electronic devices. He submitted gracefully to both intrusions, even surrendering his phone without complaint, hoping his compliance would speed the process. He wasn't armed, and his only concern was concealing the pain that raising his left arm caused him, since he didn't want to appear vulnerable in any way.

He was ushered with no fanfare into what he guessed was Shorovosky's office, and couldn't help wondering if this was where Neal had acquired his loot the night before. The mobster didn't offer to shake hands, merely indicating a chair on the opposite side of the desk. Peter accepted with an inclination of his head, grateful for the opportunity to sit. He needed to conserve what little energy he had.

The Russian regarded him with polite suspicion. "Agent Burke, if you are hoping to record or transmit our conversation with any device you managed to keep concealed from my men, I should inform you that this room is shielded."

"On the contrary, I'm quite happy for our conversation to be...off the record, shall we say." Peter was uncertain how forthright he should be, whether he would be more successful posing as an agent in league with the rogue OPR cell, or to follow his instincts which told him to play it fairly straightforward for now, since, with the bulk of the White Collar division an hour behind him, establishing an honest dialogue would be beneficial once he was operating in a more official capacity.

"Then how can I help you?" Shorovosky spread his hands expansively, but his eyes were still watchful.

"I think we can help each other. Let me put this plainly. You have something of mine, and I have something of yours." Peter was aware this was a gollomesque statement of possession, but felt that making a proprietary claim on his young CI was the best safeguard to Neal's future health.

The mobster raised a shaggy eyebrow. "Not plain enough, I'm afraid. I do not understand. What do I have that you could possibly want?"

"You have my partner, Neal Caffrey, and I have the papers that he unfortunately...liberated from your property. It was a mistake on his part, and I'm quite happy to return them as long as you return _him_ unharmed."

"I'm sure you're mistaken. What makes you think I have this Mr. Caffrey?" It was said with an amiable show of teeth.

Peter kept his voice even and pleasant, but allowed the authority developed by years of commanding men to resonate. "I don't think, I know. I witnessed your men, shall we say, escorting Mr. Caffrey into a van and tracked it here."

A scowl crossed the Russian's face, the first chink in his polite facade. Peter maintained a bland expression, aware he'd just accused the Mob of incompetence.

"Excuse me." Shorovosky stood up. "I need to verify these facts with my employees. Please wait here. My men can get you a drink if you so wish."

Peter raised a dismissive hand. "Thank you, I'm quite comfortable." A sudden stab of fear over the mobster's intentions caused him to continue. "Mr. Shorovosky, I would like to emphasise the fact that I want Caffrey returned to me in the same condition he left." He wanted to utter the dire threats that fermented in his mind, but resisted the temptation in the belief that it would do more harm than good. Hopefully, the reminder would be enough to stall any interrogation Neal might be undergoing.

Peter didn't understand the spate of Russian that emanated from the door that Shorovosky closed behind him, but, judging from the glares of the two guards, it wasn't making the FBI agent very popular.

Feigning an ease he wasn't feeling, Peter relaxed in his chair, crossing his legs. For the first time, he had the leisure to take in his surroundings, and he disinterestedly studied the expensive artwork and opulent furnishings. He risked a quick glance at his watch and noticed that half an hour had passed since he had received Hughes' phone call. The lull in action had caused the generous flow of adrenaline, the only thing keeping him steady, to dry up to the merest trickle, and a tremor of pain and exhaustion started to work its way past his defenses. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose to compose himself.

The faint odor of chemicals hit his nostrils, and he inhaled again, identifying the scent as cleaning fluid. More out of the need for distraction than curiosity, he looked around for the source. He found it a few feet to the right - a wet patch on the rug, the fine strands darker and more erect. Suddenly terrified that Neal had bled out on that rug, the sight flushed a small tsunami of adrenaline through him, quickly replacing that previously lost. He forced himself to consider the possibility rationally. Surely Shorovosky was too wily to leave forensic evidence on his very doorstep, linking him irretrievably to murder. Though maybe in his arrogance, he believed he could commit such crimes with impunity, especially in his own home. Maybe he wanted to make Neal a very visible lesson of what happened when you stole from him. This was the organisation that had perfected the disposal of their victims in the concrete foundations of building projects or sent them out swimming in the East River with iron chains as ballast.

There must be an innocuous explanation. Maybe Shorovosky's toy poodle had peed on the rug, or maybe the mobster had spilled his morning coffee while doing the crossword. Once again, Peter fought back his fears, banishing the tension from his shoulders. He couldn't cede his position of authority by allowing the mobster to see him agitated. When Shorovosky came back into the room, he was able to meet him with a cool look of enquiry.

"Mystery solved, my dear Agent Burke." He resumed his previous position, and Peter returned the toothy smile with an equally counterfeit grin.

"Solving mysteries is something of an interest of mine. Please enlighten me." Peter flicked an imaginary speck off the sleeve of his shirt.

"My men found your friend collapsed on the pavement. He seemed ill, and being of charitable dispositions, they helped him into their van to get him medical assistance."

Peter almost applauded. It was an excellent explanation, near enough to the truth to allow the matter to be smoothed over if both parties were so inclined. "I am...grateful." He coughed the word out before it got stuck in his throat. "For their thoughtfulness. How is he now?"

"My personal physician diagnosed a concussion and suggested rest as the wisest course of action. Mr. Caffrey is upstairs in one of our bedrooms, and one of my men has gone to rouse him. While we wait, we can complete our business transaction."

Peter inclined his head. "As an FBI agent, it always gives me the greatest of pleasure to reunite missing property with its owner," he replied unctuously.

It wasn't an outright lie. The papers had been obtained illegally and would never be admissible in a court of law. The copy he had made might still provide useful information, but the originals were of little further use. However, the logistics of the exchange were a little more tricky. He didn't want Jones caught inside this compound too.

Before he could float a suggestion, the door cracked open and one of his former escorts sidled into the room. He looked extraordinarily uncomfortable approaching his boss. Peter thought he might as well be carrying a sign saying 'don't shoot the messenger.' The man had clearly drawn the short straw on this assignment. He whispered something in Shorovosky's ear, but it was in Russian, so the secrecy was superfluous. 

The mobster's reaction justified his lackey's trepidation. He slammed his fist down on the desk, and he yelled something which Peter mentally translated as, 'what the hell!" He could have feigned a disinterest in the conversation that ensued, but instead he followed it with great curiosity, interpreting the body language rather than the words. He also made a mental note that the next time El proposed a couple's class together, he would insist that a Russian class was a better investment than dancing. As he watched Shorovosky's face turn an interesting shade of puce with suppressed rage, he made a bet to himself that the situation involved his partner. Only Neal could make someone that frustrated.

As the guard slunk away, clearly grateful to have escaped unscathed, Peter raised an eyebrow of innocent inquiry. "Trouble?"

"No trouble." Shorovosky made a visible effort at nonchalance. "Just some...business complications."

"I hope these...complications," Peter mimicked the other man's tone, "Don't involve Mr. Caffrey."

A slight hesitation confirmed his guess, although the mobster attempted to shrug it off. "It appears that Mr. Caffrey was more concussed than we thought. He appears to have wandered away."

Peter's eyebrows crawled to the top of his head. "Wandered away?" he repeated. It was a wonderful euphemism for so many of Neal's activities. He wandered away from crime scenes, he wandered away from jail. As long as it wasn't a euphemism for 'received a bullet to the back of the head'.

Peter rose to the feet, but almost spoiled the effect by collapsing back down when none of the blood in his body seemed inclined to follow his head to the higher altitude. "You assured me that Neal would be unharmed."

"I can promise you that he has received no further harm at our hands, and I am sure my men will find him shortly."

Peter nodded his acceptance of that statement, but inwardly he was chortling at its preposterousness. If Neal didn't want to be found, history had shown there was only one person who could find him. It would be ironic though, Peter mused, if Neal had successfully escaped the premises, leaving Peter stuck inside on his putative rescue mission. But, if anyone could escape such a fortress, it was Neal. His agility, speed and courage, combined with the knowledge he'd gained on his previous escapade, would boost him right up to Houdini status. However, Peter's gut instincts told him that Neal, with his current injuries, had gone to ground, burying himself in a hole and pulling it in after himself. The good news was that this meant Neal was temporarily safe.

Of course, Shorovosky could be lying - unable to produce Neal alive, he had come up with a believable excuse for that inability - but Peter didn't think so. The mobster's fury had been genuine. Moreover, he had lost credibility in his negotiations with the FBI agent, not something he would willingly have permitted. Besides, it was just so Neal. He never would stay where he was put. Peter had every intention of making the most capital out of this advantage, but he never got the chance.

There was no tentative entry this time. The guard burst in, shouting urgently in Russian. Shorovosky slammed both fists on his desk and rose to his feet, spitting out a curse, his face twisted in rage. Before Peter could do the same, he felt the barrel of a gun pushed against the back of his neck.

"You're a dead man, Agent Burke."

Clearly the cavalry was on its way, but remembering the cameras on the wall outside, Peter wondered how much warning Shorovosky received on incoming visitors. It could mean the difference between life and death. His heart crashed against his rib cage with the force of a wrecking ball, but his mind had never been so clear.

He relaxed back in his chair, crossing his legs neatly at the ankles. "That would be a big mistake." He voice was collected, pretending utter unconcern. "They know I'm here. They know Caffrey's here. If anything happens to either of us, that's the end of you and your whole organisation."

"I'll take the chance," Shorovosky growled, but Peter could see could see a fine sheen of sweat gathering at the Russian's temples.

It was tempting to spit out his rationalisation at a pace that would beat a speeding bullet, but Peter remained composed. "They have a warrant and a SWAT team, and they'll be in here before you have the chance to conceal anything. You'll be in the chair for murder, your whole organisation will be destroyed, and your rivals will pick up the pieces. However, if you listen to me, I can prevent that from happening. This can all go away."

For a long moment, the condensed fury in the mobster's expression convinced Peter that he would order the trigger pulled merely for spite, but no one rose to be head of such an organisation by acting on impulse. The gun didn't move, but it didn't fire either, so Peter entered that into the win column. His face was stiff with a forced look of indifference.

"Talk!" the Russian ordered.

"Give me my phone," Peter countered. "Come on," he continued impatiently as Shorovosky hesitated. "There's not much time."

The mobster gestured to someone behind the FBI agent. Peter was in no position to turn his head, so he couldn't tell how many people were still in the room with him - certainly enough to blow his brains out if he made an inadvertent move.

The phone was soon thrust into his hand. The battery had been removed, presumably to prevent its location being tracked, and every second it took to boot it up seemed like an eternity. If shooting started, whichever trigger-happy side initiated, Shorovosky would have nothing to lose. He would have to commit his forces to an all-out defense, destroying what evidence he could while he and any lieutenants he considered non-expendible escaped through whatever bolt hole had undoubtedly been set up. The FBI didn't have the resources to surround his whole encampment. Peter himself would almost certainly be the first casualty, and he could only hope that Neal's hiding place was deep enough to avoid all the bullets that would be spraying around indiscriminately.

The instant his phone was operating, Peter pressed 7 on his speed dial. It was answered almost immediately. "Agent Burke?"

To a stranger, the voice probably sounded cold and officious, but to Peter, the tone spoke of an ice-cold fury, melted by a measure of concern, that had never been directed his way before. Since a dressing down from his superior at this point would destroy his credibility, Peter jumped in first.

"Agent Hughes, the situation is under control here. Mr. Shorovosky is cooperating, and I'd appreciate it if you could wait just a few minutes for me to resolve the situation to our mutual satisfaction. If you do not hear from me in the next ten minutes, then please execute your warrant."

There was a momentary silence at the other end, and Peter's palms were sweating in the fervent hope that his superior wasn't too angry with him to follow his lead. Finally, he received one word, "Understood."

There was a strain in the utterance of the word that bespoke a torrent of things left unsaid, that almost certainly would be spoken at high volume once the situation was resolved. For a moment, Peter felt like a particularly tender and juicy piece of meat held tantalisingly between two lions.

"Okay," he announced briskly and unnecessarily. "We've got ten minutes."

"To do what?" The Russian clearly remained poised on the edge of violence, unconvinced that he was benefiting from this arrangement.

"To conceal anything incriminating," Peter explained patiently. At the blank look he received, he elaborated, "Any hypothetically stolen goods, any evidence of illegal activity, any person with an open warrant."

"But a search would..."

"If we play our cards right, there won't be a search. The warrant is for Caffrey. If, as you say, he's received no harm at your hands, then your good Samaritan explanation will suffice. I'll back you up."

"But I can't produce Caffrey." The mobster suddenly sounded like a petulant child.

"I can find Caffrey, don't worry about that," Peter promised confidently. "Just make sure there's nothing illegal out in plain sight while I do so. Nothing will be confiscated. I'll thank you kindly for taking care of my partner in his hour of need, and we'll leave. Your organisation remains intact, as does your leadership, and you also receive the cachet of beating a warrant served on your home. It's a win-win situation."

It sounded good to his own ears, even if it was mostly improvised, but it also seemed to have been convincing to the Russian. Shorovosky's expression was now thoughtful and assessing, then with a click of his fingers, he sent his men off to follow Peter's directions.

As the pressure disappeared from the back of his neck, Peter's nostrils flared with a deep sigh of relief. However, he decided to pursue his luck.

"I have two more stipulations," he announced confidently.

The mobster glared. "You're in no position to make demands."

"I believe I am." Peter made a big show of looking at his watch. "For the next 3 minutes. Firstly, there'll be no attempts at retribution against Mr. Caffrey. I usually work white collar crimes, so there's no reason for our paths to cross again, but if anything happens to myself or Caffrey, I'll make sure the full story gets to my bosses."

"Agreed," Shorovosky acquiesced. "I have no desire to bring the full force of the FBI down on myself. You keep your side of the bargain, and hopefully, we'll never meet again."

"Lastly," Peter tried to look as if he were about to ask for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. "I want the Janssen diamonds back."

"Poshel ty! No!"

"I need the diamonds back for this case to be closed. You're not safe unless that happens. I'm not going to reveal the connection with you because it would mean also revealing Caffrey's role. I need the diamonds back for him to be safe, and if he's safe, you're safe."

The Russian still looked indecisive.

"It's a miniscule portion of your profits, and it's a miniscule portion of the money you'd pay for your lawyers to defend you in court. Time's up. Yes or no?" Peter pushed.

Shorovosky waved a hand in a Slavic gesture of frustration. "Make your call. I'll get your diamonds."

As the mobster started opening a safe concealed by a Russian landscape painting behind his desk, Peter dialed. "Agent Hughes, the situation has been resolved; please ask your men to stand down. Mr. Shorovosky has promised me his fullest cooperation. It seems that there's been a misunderstanding. He and his men were merely helping Neal after he'd been injured. However, we have temporarily mislaid Caffrey. We believe he has wandered off in confusion following a concussion. Please have an ambulance standing by, and send in Agent Jones with a GPS tracker."

"Agent Jones is on his way. Keep me informed with regular updates." Hughes didn't sound happy about the situation.

"Agent Condron told me he had disabled Caffrey's tracking anklet." Shorovosky dumped a small black bag that jingled nicely into Peter's hand. He slipped them into his pocket without insulting his host by checking them.

"Agent Condron was not exactly a reliable source of information." It was the easiest explanation of a complex issue. "While we're waiting, I'd like to see the room that Caffrey...left." He was going to say 'escaped from' but decided on the more politic word.

Shorovosky escorted him personally, although probably to ensure Peter saw nothing he wasn't supposed to rather than out of politeness. The FBI agent didn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed by the innocuousness of the storage room in which they'd kept Neal. It spoke of a certain civility, but more worryingly of the belief that Neal was truly out of commission. The only visible form of restraint was a pair of handcuffs dangling forlornly from the metal bedpost, and Peter knew how useless they were. His partner had broken out of worse while drugged out of his mind.

"He went out the window," Peter announced unnecessarily, positioning himself gingerly in the opening. "Then up onto the roof."

"Well, he's not up there now, my men checked. He must have reentered the house through another window, so he could be anywhere now, and there's a lot of rooms to check."

"Damn it," Peter muttered distractedly, his highly honed Neal radar working full force. Had his young partner had a plan, or had he been extemporizing? Jones arrived before Peter's mental peregrinations had progressed very far.

Strangely enough, the GPS tracker was not the panacea it promised to be. Finding someone within 10 feet on a street was a very different business from finding someone within a building. The presence of walls and floors and the difference between horizontal and vertical distance resulted in a confused tramping around staircases and halls before Peter came to the realisation, "My God! He's in the chimney!"

Since Neal had descended from the roof, he didn't know just how brilliant a hiding place he had chosen. The fireplace had been made redundant by central heating and had been boarded over. At this point, the mobster just wanted the FBI gone and would probably have agreed to the demolition of half his mansion to accomplish that goal. He ordered his men to remove the desk that was obstructing the area and to tear down the plywood that blocked it off. As soon as the space was cleared, Peter ducked inside.

"Neal?" His questing fingers found only a grid of metal. He tugged at it, but, with only one working arm, was unable to shift it.

It took two men to dislodge the grate and the wads of newspaper that had been used for insulation. The instant they finished, Peter was back on his knees in the fireplace. It was wider than a modern chimney, but the front wasn't much higher, and he had to contort himself to get under into the opening.

"Neal!" he called again urgently. His voice echoed flatly before being absorbed by the bricks. He was beginning to think he'd made a mistake, when his fingers hit something solid, which he quickly identified as an arm hanging down. He grabbed hold and tugged, not the wisest move since, an instant later, he was trying to catch the limp body that rolled down on top of him. Peter shuffled in an ungainly crouch backwards, pulling the body with him, instantly identifying the figure as Neal despite the obscuring layer of grime that covered every inch of his usually immaculate friend. His eyes were closed, dark eyelashes almost invisible as they swept a soot-encrusted cheek. His lips were parted slightly, but if he was breathing, it was too shallowly to be immediately perceptible.

Peter's fingers scrabbled for a pulse, but he was shaking too hard to recognise the soft throb that pushed back against them. Relief whistled through him as he finally found it, and he collapsed shakily back on his heels.

"Jones, get a stretcher up here. We need to get him to the hospital. Oh, and give me the envelope."

With a sideways glance at the Russian, the younger agent reached into his pocket, pulling out the papers and handing them over. As Jones left the room, Peter slapped the documents into Shorovosky's waiting palm.

"If he had died, this would have had a very different ending." He was too exhausted to sound properly threatening.

The mobster eyed him inscrutably. "Your arm's bleeding," was his only response. He slid the envelope into his pocket without checking its contents, a mirror of Peter's earlier gesture that was matched by the grudging respect in his eyes. "You have indeed kept your word, Agent Burke. I will remember this, and you and your friend have nothing further to fear from us. Now, I will go and ensure my men do not get trigger happy in the presence of so many armed agents."

He swept out of the room, his men trailing after him as if his wake contained a vortex, but Peter was scarcely aware of the honour of being left alone, because he was too focused on Neal. Peter's first instinct was to slap his friend gently on the face to rouse him, but the livid bruising that could be seen even under the layers of grime discouraged that. His hands hovered indecisively for a moment before settling on his friend's shoulder and giving him a tentative shake.

"Neal, you're safe now. Come on, I'm just as terrible as I ever was at first aid, so do me a favour and wake up. " He didn't think it would be quite that easy, but his coaxing was rewarded with a twitch, so he persevered, calling Neal's name in more urgent tones.

Finally, one eye opened a slit, revealing a glint of blue that contrasted shockingly with the dark face. "That's it," Peter encouraged. "I knew you were in there."

The eye opened further, seemingly dragging its more reluctant partner with it. "Good boy," Peter said approvingly. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Neal slowly focused on the four digits waving in front of his face. Peter winced slightly as his friend moistened dry and dirty lips in an effort to talk. "F-Four..." Peter's face beamed a smile, but it slid downward and dropped off entirely as his young partner continued, blinking owlishly "...teen, fifteen, something like that."

Peter stared, worried, unsure for once if his friend was teasing or the concussion really had addled brain and eyesight that severely. He settled for patting him reassuringly. "You're going to be alright. We'll have you in the ambulance soon."

Neal blinked again, as if trying to clear his blurred vision, then his gaze fastened on the GPS tracker Peter was still holding in his left hand. "Peter, you cheated!" Despite the fact that it was said in little more than a husky whisper, the outrage came through clearly.

Peter gave a snort of laughter that was composed as much of relief as humour.

"Peter!"

The agent reared back in alarm just in time to avoid being headbutted as Neal shot upright as if he'd been tasered, his eyes wild. Suddenly, Peter found himself being manhandled, his friend patting him down, trying to turn him round to see his back.

It was the similarity to Diana's earlier invasive explorations that clued him in, and he suddenly remembered that Neal had seen him go down. Clearly, that memory had finally percolated to the top of Neal's scrambled brain.

"Neal!" He tried to interrupt the panicked garbled rambling that was coming from his friend, and waited patiently for his partner to come to the conclusion that there really wasn't a knife sticking out of his back before continuing at a greater volume, "NEAL!"

This time, he was permitted to twist back round, and he looked into confused, hazy blue eyes. "I'm okay," he explained gently. "The knife got stuck in the straps of my holster. It didn't hurt me."

"You're bleeding," Neal pointed out accusingly.

Until it was mentioned, Peter had forgotten his own injuries in the tension of the FBI/mob confrontation, but now the pain came surging back, hot and feral. Yeah, thanks for that, Neal.

"It's just my arm," he explained dismissively. "You know, nothing dangerous."

Neal just stared at him, swaying on his knees, as if assessing the veracity of the statement, then in the second it was accepted, he collapsed like a kneeling scarecrow removed from its pole. Peter caught him, gathering him in protectively, although the instinctive use of both arms almost caused him to regret his good reflexes. He sucked the involuntary yelp back behind his teeth.

"I thought..." Neal started hoarsely, but he was interrupted by a coughing spasm. Peter supported him, holding him strongly as the young man reeled, black flecks clinging to his lips as his lungs tried to expel the soot that he'd disturbed in his descent.

As the coughing diminished to mere wheezing, Peter settled him more comfortably, keeping him braced upright to assist his breathing. Neal's eyes had fluttered closed, and it wasn't clear whether he was still conscious.

Peter could hear the sound of Jones approaching with the medical personnel. He'd be hitchhiking a ride on Neal's stretcher if it weren't for the fact that he'd be damned if he left this house on anything but his own two feet. As an incentive, he promised himself a breakdown in the ambulance as long as he got that far. He was running on less than empty; his warning light had given up on flashing a warning, opting instead to join forces with his concussion in an attempt to drill a hole through his head.

Leaning back against the wall, he patted Neal on the shoulder once more. "You're going to be alright." This time, the reassurance of Neal's future well-being was for himself.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: So this is the end, and that makes me very sad, because I've had so much fun with this.

Thank you, first and foremost, to Susan who betaed this when she really didn't have the time. That was all the more remarkable because this is twice as long as my last story. You are wonderful, my friend.

Thank you to my husband, also known as 'my doting fan' who has supported me throughout the story, and actually likes the show!

Thank you also to everyone who took the time to let me know what they enjoyed about the story or to encourage me to write more. One of the reasons I'm sorry this story is over is because I have really enjoyed talking with so many of you. To Mary, who has been a constant source of delight with her wonderful comments and letters, Judith, Pam, Kim, Vanessa, Peggy, Canadiansanget, Deb and Ultrascape, all of whom have engaged in fascinating personal correspondence with me.

Just a quick warning. The next thing I post will be my Supernatural story, which has been mildewing in an abandoned folder for over 3 years. However, I have started writing a new White Collar, but it will be a while before I post since I never start posting until the story is complete.

There are so many others I want to thank who diligently reviewed, but this is already sounding like an Oscar acceptance speech, so without further ado, here is the completion of Scapegoat.

Chapter 9

Regaining consciousness was like rising up from the murky depths of a turbulent ocean, the currents dragging heavily on his water-logged clothes and exhausted muscles as he struggled and kicked to the surface. It was entirely too bright up there, and it was hard to force his eyes open, but there was a Siren voice calling his name; - soft, feminine and insistent.

His first blurry, pain-sparkled impression was of bright blue eyes and dark, glossy hair. His immediate hazy assumption of 'Kate' faded with a grieved pang as memory and eyesight improved. Identification of the raven-haired beauty rippled in, gently flooding him with almost as much comfort as Kate's presence would have brought.

"Elizabeth," he whispered hoarsely. He squeezed the hand he hadn't realised was holding his, and she graced him with her special smile - sweet, empathic, with a touch of mischief, but at that moment, it also held an uncharacteristic edge of weariness and worry. That observation triggered a flash of memory, and he bolted upright. "Peter!" It was a horrified gasp and a query.

El's smile quirked a little. It was an odd reaction and strangely reassuring. She nodded to the other bed in the room. "He's over there."

There was a rhythmic throbbing in his skull, and movement created waves of dizziness, but, despite that, Neal shifted to get a better view. The quarter profile he was offered amidst the pillows was unmistakably Peter, but it was hard to reconcile that peaceful pose with his memories of violence. "How bad?" he asked urgently.

"Slight concussion and bruising and thirty seven stitches in his arm," El recited dutifully. There was something patient and repetitive about her response, and it clued Neal in to another realisation.

"I've asked you this before," he said slowly.

The quirk returned. "It's only the fourth time. You've been drifting in and out for a day or two, and it's always the first thing you ask. The doctors say your memory might be spotty for a while." She pushed an unruly lock of hair off his forehead. There was a touch of curiosity and an even deeper worry in her expression as if she realised that there was more to the story, that there was a good reason for the emphasis that Neal was placing on Peter's state of health.

Neal had no intention of sharing the memory that inspired his apparently reoccurring anxiety. The image of the knife descending to stick quivering in Peter's unprotected back was seared into his mind seemingly indelibly, since that was the one thing he remembered clearly. Yet apparently it was also inaccurate; no mention had been made about a knife injury to Peter's back.

"I don't remember," he murmured vaguely, allowing her to interpret that as referring to his previous inquiries. He glanced over at Peter again, and now that stillness seemed ominous. There was a strange sense of compression in his chest, as if breathing were unnatural.

"If he's not badly hurt, why is he..." Neal waved a hand vaguely to indicate either Peter's state of unconsciousness or his presence in the hospital bed.

El gave a little huff and a downward purse of the lips. "The doctors said blood loss and exhaustion mostly. And I don't know when he last ate," she added more maternally.

As if talking about her husband created a magnetic pull, she stood up and padded the few steps over to the other bed. Her expression was soft as she stared down, checking on Peter. Reassured, she resumed her seat next to Neal.

"He just...he couldn't..." Her voice held a perceptible wobble. "He just couldn't allow himself to properly relax until we knew you were out of the woods. The doctors were worried about you for a while. You were unresponsive, and there was talk about the possibility of brain damage, a cerebral edema." There was a tear balanced on the edge of her lashes, and he reached out to prevent it streaking down her cheek.

He didn't know if was for himself or Peter, but he hated to see it on a face that was made for smiling. "I'm sorry," he said uselessly.

He took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly, then on impulse, pulled it towards himself and placed a kiss on the back of her fingers. It wasn't his usual flirting gallantry, but a genuine attempt to show the respect and love he felt for this remarkable woman.

There had to be an explanation for the stabbing he believed he'd witnessed, but El would surely know if her husband had a hole in his back, and there'd be a lot more by way of monitoring machines and medical paraphernalia if Peter had suffered a serious injury, so for now, he had to let it go.

"The last thing I remember," Neal said thoughtfully, events still fuzzy in his head, "I was doing my best impression of Santa Claus in the home of a Russian mobster. How did I get from there to here?"

"Peter went in after you...well, not down the chimney. At least, I don't think so."

They both sat there and contemplated the mental image of Peter diving down a flue to extract his missing partner. El shook her head to dispel the picture. "He wasn't exactly informative on the issue. I think his exact words were, 'so I went in and got him out.'"

Neal didn't shake his head because he was afraid it might fall off if he attempted such strenuous gymnastics. "Hardly enlightening. Somehow, I don't think a flash of a badge and a stern look would make much of an impression on the Russian mob. Besides, it lacks a certain subtlety." Catching her expression, he quickly added, "But it was definitely successful. Genius in its simplicity."

His hasty backtracking did nothing to abate the worried frown on her face, and that reawoke his own sense of unease. "What is it? There's something wrong, isn't there?"

Seeing the renewed apprehension written clearly in his expression, El quickly reassured him. "Nothing like that. Peter's going to be fine, I promise."

The fingers twisting her wedding ring round and round told a different story. Neal reached out to grasp her hand, stilling the nervous movement. "Please tell me. I want to help."

EL rested her head momentarily on their joined hands and exhaled slowly. "It's probably nothing. It's just that Reese seemed ..."

"Hughes has been here?" Neal interrupted with some trepidation, remembering his own illegal activities over the past few days.

"Yes, and he looked really grim."

"How could you tell?" Neal responded immediately, with just the right touch of incredulity.

El pressed her fingertips to her mouth to suppress a smile. "Neal," she said with mock severity.

"Grim _is_ his default expression," he elaborated meekly.

"Well, that has certainly been true this last few days." El grimaced. "He's been wanting to talk to Peter, but the first time he was here, the doctors refused to let him in, since they were working on Peter's arm. The second time, Peter was asleep. Reese came in here, glared at Peter, muttered something about you being a bad influence, and left."

"El, I'm sure there's no reason to worry. This is Peter we're talking about. He's the Bureau's golden boy, by-the-book-Burke. How much trouble could he be in?"

"He's changed." They both could hear the subtext - _you changed him_. "He takes more risks now, bends the rules at least in a way he never did before."

At first, these words caused Neal to feel a sense of selfish gratification, a relief that he wasn't the only one transformed by this partnership. His time working with Peter had matured him, forcing him to face the repercussions of his past actions and consider the consequences of future activities, not the least of which was disappointing Peter himself. But that satisfaction quickly soured in his stomach, and he rubbed the heel of his palm into his eye as a delaying tactic, unsure what he wanted to say. Despite his flippant response about Peter's conventionality, he knew that his partner had covered for him any number of times when official rules would have dictated otherwise. Even after the whole diamond debacle, he had offered Neal the benefit of the doubt. Having identified Neal as the thief, he hadn't come storming in with a warrant, but had given his friend the chance to explain his actions first. Furthermore, he hadn't reported the bullet wound as he was legally bound to do.

Peter had gone to great lengths to protect Neal, but it was a two-way street, because Neal was determined that no harm was going to come to Peter on his watch again.

Finally he sucked in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry," he offered inadequately.

To his surprise, El shook her head immediately with a soft smile. "There's no need for an apology. Peter has always been passionately dedicated to his work, but now he..." she paused, clearly rooting around for the right word, "...enjoys it. And your phenomenal closure rate hasn't hurt his reputation any. You're good for each other," she concluded.

"If there's a problem, I'll fix it." Neal's promise was spoilt by a yawn.

El smiled sweetly at him. "Go to sleep, hon. I'm sure it'll work out." She checked her watch. "Visiting hours are nearly over, and I'll need to leave soon."

Neal initially tried to fight the pull of sleep, afraid the memories of the conversation would again be swept away by the interval of unconsciousness, but the drag of exhaustion was inexorable, and he finally surrendered.

The next time he roused from sleep, it didn't take him long to reorient himself. It was dark outside, but that didn't translate to being particularly dark inside. There was too much ambient light from the various machines in the room and from the miscellany of emergency lights that glowed relentlessly.

He remembered his conversation with El and was congratulating himself on his recovered amnesiac status when a familiar voice cut through his deliberations.

"So, you were telling me about the Musee d'Orsay heist."

"No I wasn't!" It was an automatic, slightly panicked denial because he had apparently had several conversations that his memory failed to recall. Belatedly, he realised that was probably the wrong denial and hastily added, "No, I didn't...have anything to do with that."

Levering himself upright, he turned to look at his best friend and partner who was sitting facing him on the side of the second bed, legs dangling over the edge like an overgrown school kid. Peter was pale and drawn, with a three-day growth of stubble. He looked terrible, and was the most wonderful sight Neal had seen in days.

"Are you trying to take advantage of an injured man, Agent Burke?" he complained playfully.

Peter grinned mischievously. "You are just so adorably talkative when you're dopey. I never know what interesting anecdotes I might hear."

Neal slumped back against his pillows. "I can tell you a bedtime story if you want. Match the theme of this little sleepover."

"Hey, this was El's idea, not mine. She said she wanted us both where she could see us."

As Neal rubbed at his temples to erase the persistent ache in his head, Peter watched him intently, taking in the sleepless nights painted like bruises under his eyes, fatigue drawing his cheekbones sharper.

"How're _you _doing?" he asked, without much expectation of a straight answer.

As expected, his concern was deflected. "You don't get to ask me that." Neal pointed at Peter accusingly. "I have a very persistent memory of you dead. So I'm the one who gets to ask."

Peter rolled his eyes good humouredly. "Neal, for the 54th time..."

"Don't exaggerate. El said it was only 4 or 5."

"She wasn't here for the first 50. So for the 55th time, I'm fine."

Neal sucked in a breath and suppressed the cough that rattled in his lungs. Apparently being stuck in a chimney wasn't good for the respiratory system. Who knew? "37 stitches and a concussion is not fine. You're as far from fine as a person can get and still be so annoying."

Peter arched an eyebrow. "What does that mean? I don't even know what that means."

"It means why do I remember you with a knife in your back?" Neal was proud of the way his voice didn't waver.

"SInce words are obviously insufficient in your weakened mental state, perhaps a visual aid will help." Peter leaned over and plucked something from the back of a chair, before tossing it in Neal's direction.

Neal caught it by blind instinct, his still-hazy vision not up to tracking a flying object. After a moment's confusion, he identified the leather contraption he was holding as Peter's holster. At the sturdiest part, where the two straps crossed, his fingers found the gash.

His heart thumped roughly against the inside of his ribs, and he met his friend's gaze soberly. "It was too close, Peter."

Peter shrugged nonchalantly. "It wasn't as dangerous as it probably looked. I was going down anyway, and that preempted much of the force behind the blow. Anyway, whether it was good luck or good management, everything's fine."

"It's not fine. Damn it, Peter, I thought you were dead." This wasn't a conversation Neal wanted to have while lying in bed. He felt the urge to run, his muscles spasming in anticipation of movement, wanting to feel nothing but the wind in his face and the pounding of feet. He pulled his legs out from under the covers and swung them over the side, needing at least some motion, but a wave of dizziness washed away his ability to even pace, leaving him stranded on the side of the bed in a mirror position to Peter's.

He forced himself to meet his friend's gaze, allowing his friend to read what that belief, mistaken as it was, had meant to him. The honest pain and devastation in his expression forced Peter to look away and clear his throat uncomfortably.

"Look, Neal. I'm fine." He held out both arms in a demonstration of health that was spoilt as the movement forced out a wince.

"This time," was Neal's ominous addendum.

The square jaw of the man opposite him ground audibly. "What are you trying to say?"

Neal was silent for a long moment. He could feel Peter's full attention on him like a physical weight, simultaneously oppressive and comforting. Peter had always exuded a gravity that tugged Neal off course from his own erratic orbit into a more stable path. Yet what Neal needed to say might alter that, and suddenly everything felt precarious, as if his life were a card house built on the edge of a cliff and the wind was picking up.

"This partnership thing - it isn't fair on you." When that elicited no reaction, Neal added defiantly, "And it isn't fair on El." The latter was dirty pool, a below-the-belt hit which provoked the flinch he'd been aiming for.

"Are you trying to ditch me, Caffrey?" Peter appeared to have reigned himself in, his voice controlled and devoid of inflection.

"Who wouldn't?" Neal tried for a lighter touch.

Peter huffed out a small, annoyed breath. "I guess that concussion addled your brains more than I thought."

"All other FBI agents have partners with a gun and training, someone who can back them up in a dangerous situation," Neal persisted, needing to get his point across.

"We work in the White Collar unit, Neal, not the OK Corral. Ninety-nine percent of the time, we have warning going into a potentially dangerous situation, and we have Diana, Jones, or maybe the whole SWAT team as back up."

Neal wanted to stop, but somewhere inside him a fuse had blown, a breaker tripped, and his worst fears gushed out in an unstoppable torrent. He hated being this open, but either he was on drugs that were screwing with his mind, or the shift from danger to safety had tumbled his emotional defenses like dominoes. "I know that. But I'm still a liability, and when you focus on protecting me, you're not going to see the bad guy coming up behind you."

Neal's emotions seemed unusually volatile, so Peter did his best to settle him down, soothing his fears while keeping the mood casual. "Catching bad guys is my job, remember. I'm trained to serve and protect."

"I thought the motto of the FBI was Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity," Neal frowned with feigned perplexity.

"You're missing the point - which is that I can rub my stomach and pat my head at the same time." Peter's arm objected to an effort to give a demonstration, so he desisted.

"One of your many spellbinding talents, but maybe the point is that you shouldn't have to."

Peter gave a sigh of long-suffering patience. Mentally running down the list of concussion symptoms, he skidded to a halt at depression. Neal had blanked out his expression, but the hunch in his shoulders communicated his misery. "Neal, I know you have an IQ higher than the national debt of most developing countries, so stop being an idiot."

Neal tipped his head on one side contemplatively. "I think there was a compliment in there somewhere, but it got lost in the abuse."

"Well I had to get your attention. Now be quiet and listen. First and foremost, in case you had any delusions, you're not getting a gun. You'll always be my unarmed partner, no getting around that one."

"That..." Peter held up a finger in restraint, and Neal closed his mouth again.

"The best weapon you possess, after your mouth fails, is your quite amazingly fast legs. Run like hell and trust me to have your back."

"But..."

"And trust me to look after myself." Peter quickly overrode the next objection. "Next, I'm not going to partner you with anyone else."

"Peter, that's..."

"No," This time it took a whole hand raised for Neal to subside a trifle sulkily. "And what part of 'be quiet' don't you understand?"

'_The part where you actually think I'll stop talking_.' Neal bit his lip to stop himself from actually saying that, but he wasn't surprised when Peter retorted.

"I heard that."

"I didn't say a word.

"You didn't have to; I know what you were thinking."

Neal drew in a deep breath, but it caught in his throat, a tickle moving quickly through a series of grating coughs into a paroxysm. His lungs just refused to function, so he couldn't seem to get anything even vaguely resembling a scrap of oxygen. He curled over protectively, clutching at his side and drawing up his knees in pain.

The bed dipped, then a voice in his ear commanded, "Breathe, Neal, breathe!" He felt a hand on his back, not moving, just grounding him as the world slowly and painfully came back into focus, and he managed a hitching breath. A glass was thrust into his hand with the order to drink and, as he managed to comply, the liquid soothed the irritation in his throat. Cautiously, he straightened out, striving to keep each breath slow and shallow.

Peter gave him time to recover, noting the clamped-down tension that still resided in the muscles under his fingers. It was becoming clear that Neal was feeling responsible for Peter's close call, and, unaccustomed to that feeling, wasn't dealing with it very well.

Although he was all for encouraging emotional growth in his young friend, it wasn't fair to allow him to continue to feel culpable. As soon as he felt Neal would be receptive, Peter steered him around until they were facing again. "Let's make this perfectly clear. This was not your fault. My getting hurt was not your fault. My getting involved was not your fault."

Peter could tell he had hit the nail on the head because Neal now shut his mouth firmly and sat back, but his eyes were wide and conflicted, doing the talking for him.

"Neal, this was an OPR mess, not one you created. I'd have got pulled in sooner or later anyway. That Condron got the jump on you was _my_ fault. I should never have left you alone. I wanted to call El and also give you the chance to rest, but that was my mistake. Besides, I'm pretty sure it's thanks to you that they didn't finish me off. They can't have intended to leave me there as a witness, so it's a good bet you led them away from me. I didn't have to be conscious to know that."

Guilt had turned to confusion and pensiveness in Neal's expressive eyes. Peter decided it was time to nip this uncharacteristic insecurity in the bud. "I don't want anyone else as my partner. We work well together and...I trust you to have my back, weapon or not. Oh don't let it go to your head," he growled seeing the smug expression resurface on Neal's face.

The young man put up a hand like an obedient child in class. Peter gestured wearily. "Yes, you can talk now. What?"

"Did that hurt?"

"Little bit, yes."

After grinning in mutual understanding, they both sat for a while in silence. The beds were high, and Neal's feet didn't touch the ground, and he swung them gently to and fro in a soothing rhythm. It was easier to breathe now; the tight constriction binding his chest had loosened with Peter's supportive sentiments. He hadn't even realised how paralysing the weight of his guilt and fears had been until they had been lifted. He wanted to bask in the relief, but remembering El's concerns, he realised it was premature to consider the matter closed. He decided to approach the problem obliquely.

"Anyway." He stretched the word out for several syllables to signal a change in the subject. "How much trouble am I in?"

Peter glanced up from his perusal of the floor. "None at all, I've got it covered. There's nothing to worry about."

"Then how much trouble are you in?"

"What makes you think I'm in any trouble?" Peter countered.

"El."

"What makes El think I'm in any trouble?"

"Hughes."

"Well, what makes Hughes...oh, okay, fine." Peter threw up his hands in capitulation. He started to speak, then reconsidered, shutting his mouth with a snap before trying again with a rueful expression. "I'll admit, I'm not going to be Hughes' favourite person for a while."

When Neal just stared at him expectantly, Peter continued unwillingly, "Okay, it's just possible I might draw an official reprimand, but nothing terrible."

A frown overrode the concern on Neal's face. "This isn't right. I'm going to Hughes to tell him what really happened, that none of this is your fault."

Peter gazed upwards as if imploring the heavens to give him strength. "I can't believe I'm going to say this. Far be it for me to discourage this fit of excessive honesty, but you're exhibiting it at the worst possible time. You are not to mention the diamond heist. Just let me handle this."

Eyes round with innocence, Neal asked, "So, you're not going to be honest with Hughes."

"Of course I am," Peter snapped. "I'm going to tell him the truth. Just..." he added with palpable reluctance, "Just not the whole truth. Oh, take that look off your face."

"But I'm so proud, young Padawan."

That drew a reluctant smirk, before Peter admonished, "Don't be. It's not like you invented prevarication."

"So what _are_ you going to tell him?"

Peter hopped off Neal's bed to find a glass of water for himself. He needed a moment to pull his thoughts together. They needed to have their stories straight, but it went against the grain to encourage Neal's tendency to equivocate, so he wanted to keep this as genuine as possible.

"You told me you weren't feeling well, so I went over to check on you and found you in the midst of being kidnapped by rogue OPR agents for their own nefarious purposes. When I tried heroically to interfere, I got stabbed for my trouble. The OPR agents left me for dead and took you outside where their past caught up with them, and they died in some kind of gun battle. You, of course, have little memory of this because of your unfortunate concussion. You were staggering around in confusion on the streets when Shorovosky's men found you and out of the greatest goodness of their hearts took you in to get medical attention."

"They did?" Neal interrupted, surprised for the first time in the narration.

"Yep, good Samaritans, the lot of 'em. They stuck you in a bed to sleep it off. You woke up confused and for some inexplicable reason decided to go chimney diving."

Neal assessed the tale, mentally probing for weak spots, and it didn't take long to find one. "Peter, it's a good story, but what about the diamonds? The Bureau will continue to look for them and the thief that took them."

Peter's confidence didn't falter. "Shorovosky bought the diamonds in good faith from the OPR agents. Upon finding out they were stolen, he immediately handed them over to a representative of the law - me."

"He did?" Neal shook his head ruefully. "It's amazing what you miss when you're stuck in a chimney."

"Yes, the diamonds are back where they belong, so the case is more or less closed. No one is really looking for the thief."

"Peter," Neal said with the greatest admiration. "That's brilliant. The Padawan has become the Master."

"Just remember that your role in this is innocent victim." Peter cautioned him, knowing his friend's tendency to improvise when he became embroiled in chicanery.

"Innocent victim, got it." Neal nodded enthusiastically, then stopped abruptly as his brains seemed to roll queasily with the movement.

"Any awkward questions and you plead concussive amnesia. Just so we're clear on this, I'm not condoning diamond heists or heists of any kind. I'm just not having you take the fall for something that's not your fault.

Peter glanced at his watch on the bedside table. "It's nearly four o'clock in the morning. They'll be coming to wake us up for breakfast shortly. We need to get some sleep."

"I'm not tired," Neal protested.

"That's what happens when you sleep all day. It screws up your internal clock."

Neal didn't put up much resistance as Peter helped him back under the covers. The agent then turned off a light that reduced the illumination to a more crepuscular level before climbing in to his own bed. However, he seemed no more inclined to actually sleep than Neal, and the two of them fell into a desultory conversation which ebbed and flowed into the morning hours.

During a lull, Neal was contemplating the ceiling, comparing the chiaroscuro patterns he found there to his favourite abstract art, when a pensive voice came from the other bed. "If you had to make a guess, what would you say it was all about - the music box, the nesting dolls? You must have a theory."

Neal could tell that the agent wasn't fishing; he was genuinely curious and interested in his friend's opinion. "There must be a link. I have no real idea, but I'll give you my best guess. The connection appears to be Russia. When the Nazi's invaded Russia in World War Two, the Russians hid their artwork and precious items to protect them from the looting they knew would come. I think it's possible that the Music Box and the Matryoshka held clues as to the whereabouts of one of those stashes." He scratched his nose thoughtfully. "However, I could be totally wrong, and maybe it holds the identity of a cold war spy."

"A James Bond era espionage caper? That would be a nice change of pace." Yeah, Neal certainly had the daring and panache to be James Bond, but Peter had no intention of sharing that nugget of information with his partner. He heard a yawn from across the room and smiled fondly, hoping it meant the young man was finally drifting off. No such luck. Only a minute later, Neal's voice piped up once more.

"So why are you in Hughes' bad books?" Neal ignored the quelling glance from the opposite bed. "Go on, tell me. You know you're going to, or I'll just have to ask Diana or Jones. Or maybe I'll ask Hughes himself."

That surprised a snort of laughter from Peter, but knowing how relentless Neal could be in pursuit of desired information, he gave in. "Fine. I may have disobeyed an order when I went to Shorovosky's."

Neal nearly bounced on the bed in glee. "That's shocking. Such flouting of authority."

"Said the freakishly well-dressed pot calling the kettle black."

"Also, have I taught you nothing? Where was the stealth, the elegance, the subtlety of approach? You just went and knocked on the door of the Russian mob like a flat-footed pavement pounder. I can't believe that you went in waving a badge, announcing to all and sundry that you are an FBI agent."

Peter looked simultaneously annoyed and entertained. "We can't all have multiple identities and fake IDs to back them up."

Seeing Neal stare at the ceiling with casual innocence, Peter sighed in resignation. "How many do I have, Neal?"

"Just one or two, you know, for emergencies - if you had to go on the run again."

It was the Caffrey way of watching his back, so Peter didn't press the issue. "Well, it's a good thing for you that I did so, or you would have ended up smoked and crispy. Seriously, you could have been stuck in that chimney forever. It's funny how you've got everyone convinced you're so smart. I've met lemmings with better survival instincts."

"I knew you'd find me." There was a drowsy quality to Neal's voice that told Peter his roommate was finally succumbing to sleep.

He couldn't help pointing out with light skepticism, "You thought I was dead!"

"Still knew you'd find me." It was an unguarded comment, all the more truthful for its illogic, and the unquestioning trust explicitly revealed in it caused Peter to choke on the lump that rose in his throat.

He couldn't roll over on his side because of his injured arm, so he sat up again to peer over at the other bed. He watched for several minutes, but Neal didn't move, curled up in a loose ball.

"I'll always find you, Neal," he stated softly.

Once that might have been a threat, but there was no smugness or superiority in the statement. It was a promise that someone would always have his back, cared enough to come looking even when Neal himself didn't know he was lost. Neal's eyes were too heavy to open and acknowledge the words, but he wrapped the warmth and security of that assurance around himself like a blanket and fell asleep.


End file.
